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BALZAC. 

A  STUDY. 

a  Bibliography  of  Balzac's  Writings,  and 
a  Portrait. 

Crown  8vo,  gilt  top,  $1.25. 

HOUGHTON,   MIFFLIN  &  CO. 

Publishers, 

BOSTON. 


THE   PHILOSOPHY  OF 
DISENCHANTMENT 


BY 

EDGAR  EVERTSON   SALTUS 


In  Arkadien  geboren  sind  wir  Alle 
SCHILLER 


BOSTON 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 
New  York:  11  East  Seventeenth  Street 
Cfcc  BtiwrBtBr  \3rtss, 
1887 


Copyright,  1885, 
BY  EDGAR  EVERTSON  SALTUS. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge  : 
Electrotyped  and  printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


LIBRARY 

UMVERSITY  OF  CALIFORN1 
SAMTA  BARBARA 


CONTENTS. 

PACK 

CHAPTER   I. 
THE  GENESIS  OF  DISENCHANTMENT I 

CHAPTER   II. 
THE  HIGH  PRIEST  OF  PESSIMISM 36 

CHAPTER  III. 
THE  SPHINX'S  RIDDLE 77 

CHAPTER  IV. 
THE  BORDERLANDS  OF  HAPPINESS 124 

CHAPTER  V. 
THE  GREAT  QUIETUS 163 

CHAPTER  VI. 
Is  LIFE  AN  AFFLICTION  ? 208 


THE   PHILOSOPHY  OF  DIS- 
ENCHANTMENT. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  GENESIS   OF   DISENCHANTMENT. 

THE  trite  and  commonplace  question  of  con- 
tentment and  dissatisfaction  is  a  topic  which  is 
not  only  of  every-day  interest,  but  one  which  in 
recent  years  has  so  claimed  the  attention  of  think- 
ers, that  they  have  broadly  divided  mankind  into 
those  who  accept  life  off-hand,  as  a  more  or  less 
pleasing  possession,  and  those  who  resolutely 
look  the  gift  in  the  mouth  and  say  it  is  not  worth 
the  having. 

Viewed  simply  as  systems  of  thought,  the  first 
of  these  two  divisions  is  evidently  contempora- 
neous with  humanity,  while  the  second  will  be 
found  to  be  of  purely  modern  origin ;  for  from 
the  earliest  times  man,  admittedly  and  with  but 
few  exceptions,  has  been  ever  accustomed  to  re- 
gard this  world  as  the  best  one  possible,  and 
through  nearly  every  creed  and  sect  he  has  con- 
sidered happiness  somewhat  in  the  light  of  an 
inviolable  birthright. 


2       The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

Within  the  last  half  century,  however,  there 
has  come  into  being  a  new  school,  which,  in  deny- 
ing the  possibility  of  any  happiness,  holds  as  first 
principle  that  the  world  is  a  theatre  of  misery  in 
which,  were  the  choice  accorded,  it  would  be  pref- 
erable not  to  be  born  at  all. 

In  stating  that  this  view  of  life  is  of  distinctly 
modern  origin,  it  should  be  understood  that  it  is 
so  only  in  the  systematic  form  which  it  has  re- 
cently assumed,  for  individual  expressions  of  dis- 
content have  been  handed  down  from  remote 
ages,  and  any  one  who  cared  to  rummage  through 
the  dust-bins  of  literature  would  find  material 
enough  to  compile  a  dictionary  of  pessimistic 
quotation. 

For  these  pages  but  little  rummaging  will  be 
attempted,  but  as  the  proper  presentation  of  the 
subject  demands  a  brief  account  of  the  ideas  and 
opinions  in  which  it  was  cradled,  a  momentary 
examination  of  general  literature  will  not,  it  is 
believed,  cause  any  after-reproach  of  time  mis- 
spent. 

To  begin,  then,  with  Greece,  whose  literature 
has  precedence  over  all  others,  it  will  be  remem- 
bered that  in  former  days,  when  the  citizen  ex- 
pended the  greater  part  of  his  activity  for  the 
common  good,  the  poets  in  like  manner  sang  of 
national  topics,  the  gods,  the  heroes,  and  the 
charms  of  love.  There  was,  therefore,  little  op- 
portunity for  the  expression  of  purely  personal 
ideas,  and  the  whole  background  of  the  poetry 
of  antiquity  is  in  consequence  brilliant  with  op- 


The  Genesis  of  Disenchantment.         3 

timistic  effect.  Nevertheless,  here  and  there,  a 
few  complaints  crop  out  from  time  to  time. 
Homer,  for  instance,  says  that  man  is  the  unhap- 
piest  wight  that  ever  breathed  or  strutted,  and 
describes  his  ephemeral  existence  in  a  wail  of 
gloomy  hexameters. 

Then,  too,  there  is  the  touching  Orphean  dis- 
tich, which  runs :  — 

"  From  thy  smile,  O  Jove,  sprang  the  gods, 
But  man  was  born  of  thy  sorrow." 

Pindar  in  one  of  his  graceful  odes  compared  men 
to  the  shadows  of  a  dream,  while  the  familiar 
quotation,  "  Whom  the  gods  love  die  young," 
comes  to  us  straight  from  Menander. 

With  the  peculiar  melancholy  of  genius,  that  in 
those  favored  days  seems  more  a  presentiment 
than  the  expression  of  a  general  conception, 
Sophocles,  in  his  last  tragedy,  says  that  not  to 
be  born  at  all  is  the  greatest  of  all  possible  ben- 
efits, but  inasmuch  as  man  has  appeared  on  earth, 
the  very  best  thing  he  can  do  is  to  hurry  back 
where  he  came  from. 

In  spite,  too,  of  the  general  tendency  of  thought, 
sentiments  not  dissimilar  are  to  be  found  in  JEs- 
chylus  and  Euripides,  while  something  of  this  in- 
stinctive pessimism  was  expanded  into  a  quaint 
and  national  custom  by  the  Thracians,  who,  ac- 
cording to  Herodotus,  met  birth  with  lamenta- 
tions, but  greeted  death  with  salvos  and  welcom- 
ing festivals. 

With  but  few  exceptions  the  early  philosophers 


4      The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

considered  death  not  as  a  misfortune,  but  as  an 
advantage.  Empedocles  taught  that  the  sojourn 
on  earth  was  one  of  vexatious  torment,  an  opin- 
ion in  which  he  was  firmly  supported  by  He- 
raclitus,  and  even  Plato,  whose  general  drift  of 
thought  was  grandly  optimistic,  said  in  the  "Apol- 
ogy?" "  If  death  is  the  withdrawal  of  every  sensa- 
tion, if  it  is  like  a  sleep  which  no  dream  disturbs, 
what  an  incomparable  blessing  it  must  be !  for  let 
any  one  select  a  night  passed  in  undisturbed  and 
entire  rest,  and  compare  it  with  the  other  nights 
and  days  that  have  filled  his  existence,  and  then 
from  his  conscience  let  him  answer  how  many 
nights  and  days  he  has  known  which  have  been 
sweeter  and  more  agreeable  than  that.  For  my 
part  I  am  sure  that  not  the  ordinary  individual 
alone,  but  even  the  great  King  of  Persia  would 
find  such  days  and  nights  most  easy  to  enumer- 
ate." 

The  doctrine  of  Epicurus  held,  in  substance, 
that  the  moment  it  was  no  longer  possible  to 
delight  the  senses  death  became  a  benefit,  and 
suicide  a  crowning  act  of  wisdom.  The  teaching 
of  the  Socratic  school  and  its  offshoots  amounted, 
in  brief,  to  the  idea  that  the  only  admissible  aim 
of  life  was  the  pursuit  and  attainment  of  abso- 
lute knowledge.  Absolute  knowledge,  however, 
being  found  unattainable,  the  logical  culmination 
of  their  doctrine  was  delivered  by  Hegesias,  in 
Alexandria,  in  the  third  century  before  the  Chris- 
tian era.  This  disciple  of  Socrates  argued  that 
as  there  was  a  limit  to  the  knowable,  and  happi- 


The  Genesis  of  Disenchantment.          5 

ness  was  a  pure  illusion,  a  further  prolongation 
of  existence  was  useless.  "  Life  seems  pleasing 
only  to  the  fool,"  he  stated  ;  "  the  wise  regard  it 
with  indifference,  and  consider  death  just  as  ac- 
ceptable." "  Death,"  he  added,  "  is  as  good  as 
life ;  it  is  but  a  supreme  renunciation  in  which 
man  is  freed  from  idle  complaints  and  long  de- 
ceptions. Life  is  full  of  pain,  and  the  pangs  of 
the  flesh  gnaw  at  the  mind  and  rout  its  calm.  In 
countless  ways  fate  intercepts  and  thwarts  our 
hopes.  Contentment  is  not  to  be  relied  on,  and 
even  wisdom  cannot  preserve  us  from  the  treach- 
ery and  insecurity  of  the  perceptions.  Since  hap- 
piness, then,  is  intangible  we  should  cease  to 
pursue  it,  and  take  for  our  goal  the  absence  of 
pain ;  this  condition,"  he  explained,  "  is  best  ob- 
tained in  making  ourselves  indifferent  to  every 
object  of  desire  and  every  cause  of  dislike,  and 
above  all  to  life  itself.  In  any  event,"  he  con- 
cluded, "  death  is  advantageous  in  this,  it  takes 
us  not  from  blessings  but  from  evil."  1 

This  curious  mixture  of  pessimism  and  theol- 
ogy was,  it  is  said,  delivered  with  such  charm  of 
persuasive  grace  and  eloquence  that  several  of 
his  listeners  put  his  ideas  into  instant  practice, 
and  that  the  city  might  be  preserved  from  the 
contagion  of  suicide,  King  Ptolemy  felt  himself 
obliged  to  prevent  this  seductive  misanthrope 
from  delivering  any  further  harangues. 

Literature  has  the  same  tendency  to  repeat  it- 
self as  history,  and  as  the  Romans  took  much 
1  Zeller,  Philosophic  der  Griechen. 


6       The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

of  their  culture  and  many  of  their  ideas  from 
Greece,  the  tone  of  their  principal  writers  is  only 
dissimilar  to  those  already  quoted  in  that  with 
the  fall  of  their  religion,  the  decline  of  the  em- 
pire and  the  universal  intoxication  of  the  senses, 
the  pessimist  element  became  somewhat  accentu- 
ated. It  would  be  an  idle  task,  however,  to  at- 
tempt to  cite  even  a  fraction  of  the  cheerless  dis- 
tress which  pervades  the  Roman  classics,  and  it 
will  perhaps  suffice  for  the  moment  to  note  but 
a  passage  or  two,  which  bear  directly  upon  the 
subject. 

Seneca,  for  instance,  whose  insight  was  as  clear 
and  whose  understanding  was  as  unclouded  as 
any  writer  with  whom  the  world  is  acquainted, 
sent  his  letters  down  the  centuries  freighted  with 
such  ideas  as  these :  "  Death  is  nature's  most  ad- 
mirable invention."  "  There  is  no  need  to  com- 
plain of  particular  grievances,  for  life  in  its  en- 
tirety is  lamentable."  "  No  one  would  accept 
life  were  it  not  received  in  ignorance  of  what  it 
is." 

Pliny,  also,  is  very  quotable.  "  Nature's  most 
pleasing  invention,"  he  says,  "  is  brevity  of  life." 
And  he  adds,  "  No  mortal  is  happy,  for  even  if 
there  is  no  other  cause  for  discontent  there  is  at 
least  the  fear  of  possible  misfortune." 

Then,  too,  Petronius,  the  poet  of  the  Roman 
orgy,  opening  and  closing  his  veins,  toying  with 
death,  as  with  a  last  and  supreme  delight,  is  of 
familiar,  if  repulsive,  memory. 

English  literature  is  naturally  as  well  stocked 


The  Genesis  of  Disenchantment.         7 

with  individual  expressions  of  distaste  for  exist- 
ence as  that  of  Rome.  The  poets,  nearly  one 
and  all,  from  Chaucer  to  Rossetti,  have  told  their 
sorrow  in  a  variety  of  more  or  less  polished  metre, 
and  even  Macpherson  was  careful,  in  dowering 
his  century  with  another  bard,  to  put  thoughts 
into  Ossian's  verse  which  would  not  have  been 
unfitting  in  a  Greek  chorus. 

In  speaking  of  the  world,  Chaucer  had  already 
said,  — 

"  Here  is  no  home,  here  is  but  a  wilderness," 

when  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt,  enlarging  on  the  theme, 
repeated,  — 

"  Wherefore  come  death  and  let  me  dye." 
The  delicate  muse  of  Samuel  Fletcher  found  — 
"  Nothing 's  so  dainty  sweet,  as  lovely  melancholy," 

and  Shakespeare's  depressing  lines  on  the  value 
of  life  are  familiar  to  every  schoolboy. 
Dryden  wrote,  — 

"  When  I  consider  life,  't  is  all  a  cheat ; 
Yet,  fooled  with  hope,  men  favour  the  deceit, 
Trust  on  and  think  to-morrow  will  repay ; 
To-morrow 's  falser  than  the  former  day." 

All  of  which  was  afterwards  summed  up  in  the 
well-known  line,  — 

"  Man  never  is  but  always  to  be  blessed," 
while  Thomson  noted  — 

..."  all  the  thousand,  nameless  ills 
That  one  incessant  struggle  render  life." 

Keats,  and  especially  Byron,  wrote  stanza  after 


8       The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

stanza  of  enervating  sadness.  Moore's  dear  ga- 
zelle is  nowadays  a  familiar  comparison.  Shel- 
ley's tremulous  sensibility  forbade  his  finding  any 
charm  in  life,  and  we  none  of  us  need  to  be  re- 
minded that  Poe's  soul  was  sorrow-laden. 

But  the  poets  are  not  alone  in  their  tale  of  the 
deceptions  of  life ;  the  moralists  and  essayists, 
too,  have  added  their  quota  to  the  general  budget, 
and  it  is  not  simply  the  value  of  life  that  has  been 
questioned  by  many  of  the  best  writers ;  there  has 
been  also  a  certain  surprise  expressed  that  man 
should  care  to  live  at  all.  Indeed,  the  "  I  see  no 
necessity  "  of  the  wit,  to  the  beggar  imploring  aid 
that  he  might  live,  is  the  epigram  of  the  thoughts 
of  a  hundred  scholars. 

In  France,  pessimism  cannot  be  said  to  have 
been  ever  regarded  otherwise  than  as  an  intel- 
lectual curiosity.  The  Frenchman,  it  is  true,  not 
infrequently  lapses  into  a  cynical  indifference  ;  yet 
the  value  of  life  is  as  a  rule  so  evident  to  him, 
that  he  seldom  vouchsafes  more  than  a  passing 
shrug  to  any  theory  of  disparagement.  In  the 
first  place,  death,  to  which  the  hat  is  gravely 
raised,  has  never  been  in  France  a  polite  or  wel- 
come topic ;  moreover,  French  literature,  while 
lawless  enough  in  other  respects,  has  left  its 
readers  generally  unprepared  to  view  the  world 
as  a  fiasco,  in  which  misery  is  the  one  immense 
success.  The  trouveres  and  troubadours  sang 
to  the  mediaeval  chatelaine  little  else  than  the 
praise  of  love,  with  here  and  there  the  account 
of  some  combat,  to  show  what  they  might  do 


The  Genesis  of  Disenchantment.         9 

were  they  put  to  the  test.  Later,  Villon  told 
gently  of  the  neiges  d'antan,  Ronsard  aimed  a 
dart  or  two  at  fate,  and  Rabelais's  laugh  was 
sometimes  very  near  to  tears  ;  but,  broadly  speak- 
ing, the  French  asked  of  their  writers  little  else 
than  wit,  —  if  they  could  not  give  them  that,  then 
should  they  hold  their  peace. 

The  delicate  irony  of  Candide  had,  therefore, 
when  appreciated,  something  almost  novel  in  its 
savor;  and,  indeed,  it  may  fairly  be  said  that  it 
was  not  until  the  blight  of  Byron  had  been  cheer- 
fully translated,  that  the  French  were  in  any  meas- 
ure prepared  to  understand  Rolla  and  the  pa- 
thetic beauties  of  De  Mussel's  verse.  Pascal, 
Helvetius,  and  other  writers  of  desultory  depres- 
sion had  of  course  already  appeared.  Mauper- 
tuis  had  found  no  difficulty  in  showing  that  life 
held  more  pain  than  pleasure,  while  Chamfort's 
conclusions  on  the  same  subject  were  as  lumi- 
nous as  they  were  gloomy ;  and  yet  it  is  difficult  to 
say  that  the  gall  with  which  these  authors  dashed 
their  pages  served  otherwise  than  as  a  condiment 
to  fresher  and"  less  flavored  works.  Baudelaire, 
the  poet  of  boredom,  praying  for  a  new  vice  that 
should  wrest  life  into  some  semblance  of  reality, 
was  in  consequence  almost  a  novelty,  and  not  a 
perfectly  satisfactory  one  at  that.  It  is  there- 
fore only  within  the  last  ten  years  or  so  that  pes- 
simism has  in  any  wise  attracted  the  notice  of 
French  thinkers,  and  the  attention  which  has  re- 
cently been  paid  to  it  is  due  partly  to  Leconte  de 
Lisle,  and  partly  to  a  surge  of  German  thought. 


io     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

During  the  eighteenth  century  the  majority  of 
the  scholars  who  represented  the  culture  of  Ger- 
many were  faithfully  following  the  optimist  theo- 
ries of  Leibnitz  and  Wolf.  The  doctrine  that 
the  world  was  the  best  one  possible,  supported 
as  it  was  by  official  theology  and  strictly  in  ac- 
cord with  the  deism  of  Pope  and  Paley,  was  very 
generally  and  unhesitatingly  accepted.  Indeed, 
there  is  no  apparent  reason  why  it  should  not 
have  been.  The  Minnesingers  doubtless  had  for- 
mulated some  few  complaints,  but  then  these  lit- 
erary vagrants  had  already  begun  to  form  part 
of  mythology,  and  besides,  poets  are  all  more  or 
less  prone  to  discontent  and  voluble  of  sorrow. 
Beyond  the  classics  of  Greece  and  Rome  there 
was,  therefore,  no  precedent  for  pessimistic 
thought.  German  literature,  strictly  speaking, 
did  not  begin  until  Lessing's  advent,  and  before 
that  the  theatre,  with  its  Hans  Wurst  and  its 
Pickleherring,  had  offered  only  a  succession  of 
the  broadest  farce. 

The  calm  and  quiet  which  the  Germans  then 
enjoyed  was  ruffled,  if  at  all,  only  by  some  con- 
fused echoes  of  the  obiter  dicta  which  Voltaire's 
royal  disciple  was  pleased  to  disseminate,  but  it 
is  probable  that  the  better  part  of  this  ferocious 
gayety  was  drowned  in  crossing  the  Rhine,  and, 
in  any  event,  it  was  too  delicately  pungent  to  do 
more  than  disturb  the  placid  current  of  their 
thought. 

Later,  when  Kant  appeared,  the  effect  of  his 
philosophy  was  very  much  like  a  successful  treat- 


The  Genesis  of  Disenchantment.        1 1 

ment  of  cataract  on  the  eyes  of  the  whole  nation. 
"  Happiness,"  he  insisted  in  the  "  Kritik  der 
Urtheilskraft,"  "  has  never  been  attained  by  man, 
for  he  is  unable  to  find  contentment  in  any  pos- 
session or  enjoyment,  .  .  .  and  were  he  called 
upon  to  fashion  a  system  of  happiness  for  his 
fellows  he  would  be  unable  to  do  so,  for  happi- 
ness is  in  its  essence  intangible."  "  No  one," 
he  added  elsewhere,  "  has  a  right  conception  of 
life  who  would  care  to  prolong  it  beyond  its  natu- 
ral duration,  for  it  would  then  be  only  the  con- 
tinuation of  an  already  tiresome  struggle." 

After  this  the  teaching  of  Leibnitz  slowly  dis- 
appeared, and  though  a  certain  amount  of  op- 
timism necessarily  subsisted,  the  tendency  of 
thought  veered  to  the  opposite  direction.  Fichte, 
Kant's  immediate  successor,  declared,  in  direct 
contradiction  to  Leibnitz,  that  this  world  was  the 
worst  one  possible,  and  was  only  consoled  by 
thinking  he  could  raise  himself  by  the  aid  of  pure 
thought  into  the  felicity  of  the  "supersensible." 
"  Men,"  he  says,  "  in  the  vehement  pursuit  of 
happiness  grasp  at  the  first  object  which  offers 
to  them  any  prospect  of  satisfaction,  but  imme- 
diately they  turn  an  introspective  eye  and  ask, 
'  Am  I  happy  ? '  and  at  once  from  their  inner- 
most being  a  voice  answers  distinctly,  '  No,  you 
are  as  poor  and  as  miserable  as  before.'  Then 
they  think  it  was  the  object  that  deceived  them, 
and  turn  precipitately  to  another.  But  the  sec- 
ond holds  as  little  satisfaction  as  the  first.  .  .  . 
Wandering  then  through  life,  restless  and  tor- 


12     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

merited,  at  each  successive  station  they  think 
that  happiness  dwells  at  the  next,  but  when  they 
reach  it  happiness  is  no  longer  there.  In  what- 
ever position  they  may  find  themselves  there  is 
always  another  one  which  they  discern  from  afar, 
and  which  but  to  touch,  they  think,  is  to  find  the 
wished  delight,  but  when  the  goal  is  reached  dis- 
content has  followed  on  the  way  and  stands  in 
haunting  constancy  before  them."  1 

Schelling  expressed  himself  more  guardedly. 
As  professional  pantheist,  he  seemed  to  think 
that  anything  not  rigidly  vague  and  inaccessible 
was  inconsistent  with  his  philosophy.  Still  there 
was  probably  a  secret  revolt,  some  propelling  im- 
pulse to  deny  his  own  syllogisms,  and  to  bathe 
for  once  in  some  clear  stream  of  common  sense. 
In  the  "  Nachtwachen,"  which  he  published  un- 
der the  pseudonym  of  Bonaventura,  this  incen- 
tive is  evidently,  though  unsuccessfully,  at  work. 
It  may  be  that  the  force  of  habit  was  too  strong, 
but  at  any  rate  this  rhapsody,  which  was  intended 
to  be  a  confession  of  the  combat  that  he  had 
waged  with  his  belief,  and  a  recognition  of  the 
immedicable  misery  of  life,  brings  with  it  some- 
thing of  that  impression  of  delirium  which  Poe 
and  Dore  not  infrequently  suggest. 

Nor  was  Hegel  hostile  to  pessimism;  he  re- 
garded it  as  an  inevitable  phase  of  universal 
evolution,  and  indeed  its  dawn  as  a  science  had 
then  already  broken. 

Meanwhile  the  poets  had  not  been  idle.     Her- 

1  Werke,  v.  p.  408,  et  seq. 


The  Genesis  of  Disenchantment.        13 

der  and  Schiller  had  already  attested  the  bitter- 
ness of  life  to  unreluctant  ears,  and  the  number 
of  suicides  that  were  directly  traceable  to  the 
appearance  of  Werther  and  his  sorrows  was  in- 
structively large.  This  phase  of  sentimentalism, 
which  immediately  preceded  the  riotous  rebirth 
of  the  Romantic  school,  was  not  without  its  in- 
fluence on  Heine's  verse,  and  in  some  measure 
affected  the  literary  tone  of  the  day. 

It  would,  however,  be  erroneous  to  suppose 
that  the  poets  of  this  epoch  were  more  agitated 
by  the  impression  of  universal  worthlessness  of 
life  than  were  their  classic  predecessors.  The 
distress  of  Werther,  as  that  of  Lara  and  of 
Holla,  was  not  the  pain  of  suffering  humanity  j  it 
was  in  each  case  merely  the  poet's  complacent 
analysis  of  his  own  exceptional  nature  and  per- 
sonal grievances ;  it  was  the  expression  of  the  in- 
evitable surprise  of  youth,  which  notes  for  the 
first  time  reality's  unsuspected  yet  yawning  in- 
difference to  the  ideal,  and  the  stubborn  disac- 
cord between  aspiration  and  fact.  It  was  indeed 
very  beautiful  and  elegiac,  and  yet  so  fluent  in 
its  polished  melancholy  that  somehow  it  did  not 
at  all  times  seem  to  have  been  really  felt.  In 
any  case,  it  was  not  a  theory  of  common  woe,  and 
lacked  that  clear  conception  of  the  universality 
of  suffering,  which  the  less  exalted  minds  of  the 
philosophers  had  already  signaled,  but  for  which 
no  one  as  yet  had  been  able  to  suggest  a  rem- 
edy. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  an  action  was  being 


14     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

instituted  against  humanity  by  a  young  Italian, 
the  Count  Giacomo  Leopardi,  and  the  muffled 
discontent  which  for  centuries  had  been  throb- 
bing through  land  and  literature  was  raised  by 
his  verse  into  one  clear  note  of  eloquent  ar- 
raignment. 

Now,  in  most  countries  there  is  a  provision 
which  inhibits  a  judge  from  hearing  a  cause 
which  is  pleaded  by  one  of  his  connections,  for 
it  is  considered  that  the  scales  of  justice  are  so 
delicately  balanced,  that  their  holder  should  be 
preserved  from  any  biasing  influence,  however 
indirect ;  for  much  the  same  reason,  there  are 
few  communities  that  permit  a  man  to  sit  in 
judgment  on  his  own  case.  Some  knowledge  of 
Leopardi  himself,  therefore,  will  be  of  service  in 
deciding  whether  the  verdict  which  he  brought 
against  the  world  should  be  accepted  without  ap- 
peal, or  returned  as  vitiated  by  extraneous  cir- 
cumstances. 

Leopardi  passed  a  joyless  boyhood  at  Recanti, 
one  of  those  maddeningly  monotonous  Italian 
towns  whose  unspeakable  dreariness  is  only  at- 
tractive when  viewed  through  the  pages  of  Sten- 
dhal. The  unrelaxing  severity  of  an  austere  and 
pedant  father  curbed,  as  with  a  bit,  every  symp- 
tom of  that  haphazard  gayety  which  is  incident 
to  youth.  At  once  precocious  and  restive,  de- 
formed yet  inflammable,  he  was  necessarily  ener- 
vated by  the  exasperating  dullness  of  his  life, 
and  chafed,  too,  by  the  rigid  poverty  to  which  his 
father  condemned  him.  As  he  grew  up,  his 


The  Genesis  of  Disenchantment.        15 

mind,  richly  stored  with  the  wealth  of  antiquity, 
rioted  in  a  turbulency  of  imagination  which,  un- 
able to  find  sympathetic  welcome  without,  con- 
sumed itself  m  morbid  distrust  within,  and  led 
him  at  last  from  fervid  Catholicism  down  the 
precipitate  steps  of  negation. 

He  was  not  much  over  twenty  before  excessive 
study  had  well-nigh  ruined  such  health  as  he 
once  possessed.  The  slightest  application  was 
wearisome  both  to  eye  and  brain.  He  wandered 
silently  about  the  neighboring  forests,  seeking 
solitude  not  only  for  the  sake  of  solitude,  but 
also  perhaps  for  the  suggestions,  at  once  soothing 
and  rebellious,  which  solitude  always  whispers  to 
him  who  courts  her  truly.  At  other  times  he  sat 
hour  by  hour  in  a  state  as  motionless  as  that  of 
catalepsy.  "  I  am  so  much  overcome,"  he  wrote 
to  a  friend,  "  by  the  nothingness  that  surrounds 
me,  that  I  do  not  know  how  I  have  the  strength 
to  answer  your  letter.  If  at  this  moment  I  lost 
my  reason,  I  think  that  my  insanity  would  con- 
sist in  sitting  always  with  eyes  fixed,  open- 
mouthed,  without  laughing  or  weeping,  or  chang- 
ing place.  I  have  no  longer  the  strength  to  form 
a  desire,  be  it  even  for  death." 

The  Muse,  however,  would  have  none  of  this  ; 
she  flaunted  her  peplum  so  seductively  before 
him  that,  a  little  later,  when  he  had  been  visited 
by  some  semblance  of  returning  health,  he  re- 
sisted no  longer,  and  delivered  himself  up  to  her, 
heart  and  soul. 

The  present  century,  especially  during  its  ear- 


1 6     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

Her  decades,  has  been  racked  with  a  great  glut 
of  despondent  verse ;  but  no  batch  of  poets, 
however  distressed,  has  been  able,  at  any  time, 
to  catch  and  cling  to  such  a  persistent  monotone 
of  complaint  as  that  which  runs  through  every 
line  of  Leopardi's  verse.  To  quote  De  Musset :  — 

"  Les  plus  desesperes  sont  les  chants  les  plus  beaux, 
Et  j'en  sais  d'immortels  qui  sont  de  purs  sanglots." 

His  odes,  his  adjurations  to  Italy,  and  his  ele- 
gies are,  one  and  all,  stamped  with  such  unvary- 
ing and  changeless  despair,  that  their  dominant 
motive  seems  not  unlike  that  tower  which  Rene, 
finding  alone  in  the  desert,  compared  to  a  great 
thought  in  a  mind  ravaged  by  years  and  by  grief. 
His  theory  of  life  never  altered ;  he  resumed  it 
in  a  distich,  — 

..."  Arcano  e  tutto 

Fuor  che  il  nostro  dolor." 

It  may  be  said,  and  with  justice  perhaps,  that  it 
was  the  invalid  body,  aggravating  and  coexisting 
with  a  mind  naturally  morbid,  that  afterwards 
wrote  of  the  gentilezza  del  morir,  but  it  was  the 
thinker,  conquering  the  ills  of  the  flesh,  who 
later  whispered  to  the  suffering  world  the  pana- 
cea of  patience  and  resignation. 

In  Leopardi  there  is  none  of  the  vapid  ele- 
gance and  gaudy  vocabulary  of  French  verse ; 
technically,  he  wrote  in  what  the  Italians  call 
rime  sciolte,  and  he  charms  the  reader  as  well 
through  a  palpitant  sincerity  as  evident  and  con- 
tinuous inspiration.  Now,  the  educated  Italian 


The  Genesis  of  Disenchantment.        17 

turns  naturally  to  rhyme  ;  any  incident  holds  to 
him  the  germ  of  a  sonnet,  and  there  is  perhaps 
no  other  country  in  the  world  so  richly  dowered 
with  patriotic  canzoni  as  this  joyously  unhappy 
land.  But  of  all  who  have  sounded  this  elo- 
quent chord,  not  one  has  done  so  with  the  mas- 
culine originality  and  fervor  of  expression  that 
Leopard!  reached  in  his  ode  to  Italy,  in  which, 
in  a  resounding  call  to  arms,  he  exclaims  :  — 

"  Let  my  blood,  O  gods  !  be  a  flame  to  Italian  hearts." 

Italian  hearts,  however,  had  other  matters  to  at- 
tend to,  and  Leopardi's  magnificent  invocation 
was  barely  honored  with  a  passing  notice.  For 
that  matter,  his  poetry,  in  spite  of  its  resonant 
merit,  has,  through  some  inexplicable  cause,  been 
generally  ignored ;  and  while  it  resembles  no 
other,  it  has  never,  so  to  speak,  been  in  vogue. 

As  has  been  seen,  he  was  a  lover  of  solitude  ; 
indeed,  it  would  not  be  an  exaggeration  to  say 
that  he  was  glued  to  it ;  and  in  the  isolation 
which  he  partly  made  himself,  and  which  was 
partly  forced  upon  him,  he  watched  the  incubation 
of  thought  very  much  as  another  might  have 
noted  the  progress  of  a  disease.  A  life  of  this 
description,  even  at  best,  is  hardly  calculated  to 
awaken  much  enthusiasm  for  every-day  matters, 
and  it  was  not  long  before  Leopardi  became  not 
only  heartily  sick  of  the  commonplace  aspects  of 
life,  but  contemptuous,  too,  of  those  who  lived 
in  broader  and  more  active  spheres. 

Poetically  untrammeled,  and  of  advanced  views 


1 8     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

on  all  subjects,  he  regarded  erudition  as  the  sim- 
ple novitiate  of  the  man  of  letters,  or  in  other 
words,  as  a  preparation  which  renders  the  intelli- 
gence supple  and  pliant ;  and  in  one  of  those 
rare  moments,  when  the  timid  approach  of  am- 
bition was  seemingly  unnoticed,  he  caressed  the 
pleasing  plan  of  attacking  Italian  torpor  with 
reason,  passion  with  laughter,  and  of  becoming, 
in  fact,  the  Plato,  the  Shakespeare,  and  the  Lu- 
cian  of  his  epoch.  To  Giordani,  his  mentor,  he 
wrote :  "  I  study  night  and  day,  so  long  as  my 
health  permits  ;  when  it  prevents  me  from  work- 
ing, I  wait  a  month  or  so,  and  then  begin  again. 
As  I  am  now  totally  different  from  that  which  I 
was,  my  plan  of  study  has  altered  with  me. 
Everything  which  savors  of  the  pathetic  or  the 
eloquent  wearies  me  beyond  expression.  I  seek 
now  only  the  true,  the  real,  which  before  was  so 
repulsive.  I  take  pleasure  in  analyzing  the  mis- 
ery of  men  and  things,  and  in  shivering  as  I  note 
the  sinister  and  terrible  mystery  of  life.  I  see 
very  clearly  that  when  passion  is  once  extin- 
guished, there  subsists  in  study  no  other  source 
of  pleasure  save  that  of  vain  curiosity,  whose 
satisfaction,  however,  is  not  without  a  certain 
charm." 

But  Leopardi  was  so  essentially  the  poet  that, 
in  spite  of  his  growing  disdain  of  the  pathetic 
and  the  eloquent,  he  became  not  infrequently  the 
dupe  of  his  own  imagination.  That  which  he 
took  for  the  fruit  of  deduction  was  probably  lit- 
tle more  than  ordinary  hypochondria,  and  in 


The  Genesis  of  Disenchantment.        19 

turning  as  he  did  to  other  work,  he  was  never 
able  to  free  himself  entirely  from  the  jealous  in- 
fluence of  the  muse. 

He  was,  from  a  variety  of  causes,  very  miser- 
able himself,  and  his  belief  in  universal  misery 
amounted  very  nearly  to  a  mania.  His  logic  re- 
duced itself  to  the  paraphrase  of  an  axiom,  "  I 
am,  therefore  I  surfer,"  and  the  suffering  which 
he  experienced  was  not,  he  was  very  sure,  limited 
solely  to  himself.  It  was,  he  considered,  the  gar- 
ment and  appanage  of  every  sentient  being.  In 
this  he  was  perfectly  correct,  but  his  error  con- 
sisted in  holding  all  cases  to  be  equally  intense, 
and  in  imagining  that  means  might  be  devised 
which  would  at  once  do  away  with  or,  at  least, 
lessen  the  evil.  Patience  and  resignation  he  had 
already  suggested,  but  naturally  without  appre- 
ciable success ;  indeed,  the  regeneration  of  man, 
he  clearly  saw,  was  not  to  be  brought  about 
through  verse,  and  he  turned  therefore  to  phi- 
losophy with  a  fixity  of  purpose,  which  was 
strengthened  by  the  idea  that  he  could  work 
therein  another  revolution.  This  was  in  1825. 
Leopardi  at  that  time  was  in  his  twenty-seventh 
year,  and  the  task  to  which  he  then  devoted  him- 
self was,  he  said,  to  be  the  sad  ending  of  a  miser- 
able life.  His  intention  was  to  run  the  bitter 
truth  to  earth,  to  learn  the  obscure  destinies  of 
the  mortal  and  the  eternal,  to  discover  the  where- 
fore of  creation,  and  the  reason  of  man's  burden 
of  misery.  "  I  wish,"  he  said,  "  to  dig  to  the 
root  of  nature  and  seek  the  aim  of  the  mysteri- 


2O     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

ous  universe,  whose  praises  the  sages  sing,  and 
before  which  I  stand  aghast." 

Forthwith,  then,  in  the  "  Operette  Morale," 
Leopardi  began  a  resolute,  if  poetic,  siege  against 
every  form  of  illusion.  His  philosophy,  however, 
provoked  no  revolution,  nor  can  it  be  even  said 
that  he  discovered  any  truth  more  bitter  than  the 
old  new  ones,  which  antiquity  had  unearthed  be- 
fore him.  His  work,  nevertheless,  sent  the  old 
facts  spinning  into  fresh  and  novel  positions,  and 
is  to  be  particularly  admired  for  the  artistic  man- 
ner in  which  it  handles  the  most  stubborn  topics. 
The  starting  point  of  each  of  his  arguments  is 
that  life  is  evil ;  to  any  objection,  and  the  objec- 
tions that  have  been  made  are  countless,  Leo- 
pardi has  one  invariable  reply,  "  All  that  is  ad- 
vanced to  the  contrary  is  the  result  of  illusion." 
"  But  supposing  life  to  be  painless,"  some  one 
presumably  may  interject,  whereupon  Leopardi, 
with  the  air  of  an  oracle,  too  busy  with  weighty 
matters  to  descend  to  chit-chat  on  the  weather, 
will  answer  tersely,  "  Evil  still." 

It  is  useless  for  the  practical  man  of  the  day, 
who  knows  the  price  of  wheat  the  whole  world 
over  before  he  has  tasted  his  coffee,  and  who 
digests  a  history  of  the  world's  doings  and  mis- 
doings each  morning  with  his  breakfast,  —  it  is 
useless  for  him  to  say,  as  he  invariably  does  :  — 
Why,  this  is  rubbish,  look  at  modern  institutions, 
look  at  progress,  look  at  science  ;  for  if  he  listens 
to  Leopardi  he  will  learn  that  all  these  palpable 
advantages  have,  in  expanding  activity,  only  ag- 


The  Genesis  of  Disenchantment.       21 

gravated  the  misery  of  man.  In  other  words,  that 
the  sorrows  of  men  and  of  nations  develop  in 
proportion  to  their  intelligence,  and  the  most 
civilized  are  in  consequence  the  most  unhappy. 

Indeed,  Leopardi's  philosophy  is  nothing  if  not 
destructive ;  he  does  not  aim  so  much  to  edify  as 
to  undermine.  According  to  his  theory  the  uni- 
verse is  the  resultant  of  an  unconscious  force, 
and  this  force,  he  teaches,  is  shrouded  in  a  vex- 
atious mystery,  behind  which  it  is  not  given  to 
man  to  look.  In  one  of  his  dialogues,  certain 
mummies  resurrect  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  and 
tell  in  what  manner  they  died.  "  And  what  fol- 
lows death  ? "  their  auditor  asks,  eagerly.  But 
the  quarter  of  an  hour  has  expired  and  the  mum- 
mies relapse  into  silence. 

In  another  fantastic  scene,  an  Icelander,  con- 
vinced that  happiness  is  unattainable,  and  solely 
occupied  in  avoiding  pain,  has,  in  shunning  so- 
ciety, found  himself  in  the  heart  of  the  Sahara, 
face  to  face  with  Nature.  This  Icelander,  who, 
by  the  way,  singularly  resembles  Leopardi,  had 
found  but  one  protection  against  the  ills  of  life, 
and  that  was  solitude ;  but  wherever  he  wandered 
he  had  been  pursued  by  a  certain  malevolence. 
In  spite  of  all  he  could  do,  he  had  roasted  in 
summer  and  shivered  in  winter.  In  vain  he  had 
sought  a  temperate  climate  :  one  land  was  an  ice- 
field, another  an  oven,  and  everywhere  tempests 
or  earthquakes,  vicious  brutes  or  distracting  in- 
sects. In  short,  unalloyed  misery.  Finding  him- 
self, at  last,  face  to  face  with  Nature  he  took  her  to 


22     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

task,  demanding  what  right  she  had  to  create  him 
without  his  permission,  and  then,  having  done  so, 
to  leave  him  to  his  own  devices  ?  Nature  answers 
that  she  has  but  one  duty,  and  that  is  to  turn  the 
wheel  of  the  universe,  in  which  death  supports 
life,  and  life  death.  "  Well,  then,"  the  obstinate 
Icelander  asks,  "  tell  me  at  least  for  whose  pleas- 
ure and  for  what  purpose  this  miserable  universe 
subsists  ?  "  But  before  Nature  can  enlighten  her 
embarrassing  questioner,  he  is  surprised  by  two 
famished  lions  and  conveniently  devoured. 

The  moral  of  all  this  is  not  difficult  to  find. 
Life,  such  as  it  is,  is  all  this  is  accorded.  Be- 
yond it  there  is  only  an  impenetrable  silence. 
The  blue  of  the  heavens  is  pervasive,  but  void. 
The  hope  of  ultramundane  felicity  is,  therefore, 
an  illusion,  and  man  is  to  seek  such  happiness  as 
is  possible  only  in  this  life.  But  if  it  be  asked 
what  the  possibilities  of  earthly  happiness  are, 
Leopardi  is  quick  to  tell  his  reader  that  there  are 
none  at  all. 

As  has  been  seen,  he  regarded  life  as  an  evil ; 
and  he  insisted  in  so  regarding  it,  not  only  as 
a  whole,  but  in  each  of  its  fractional  divisions. 
This  idea  is  quaintly  expressed  in  a  dialogue  be- 
tween a  sorcerer  and  a  demon,  the  latter  having 
been  presumably  summoned  with  an  incantatory 
blue  flame.  The  demon  is  somewhat  sulky  at 
first,  and  asks  why  he  has  been  disturbed.  Is  it 
wealth  that  the  sorcerer  wishes  ?  Is  it  glory  or 
grandeur  ?  But  the  sorcerer  has  neither  greed 
nor  ambition. 


The  Genesis  of  Disenchantment.       23 

"  Do  you  wish  me  to  procure  for  you  a  woman 
as  captiously  capricious  as  Penelope  ? " 

The  sorcerer  probably  smiles,  for  he  answers 
wittily :  — 

"  Do  you  think  I  need  the  aid  of  a  devil  for 
that  ? " 

Thus  outfaced,  the  demon  begs  to  know  in 
what  manner  he  may  be  of  service. 

"  I  simply  want  one  moment  of  happiness,"  the 
sorcerer  answers. 

But  Mephisto  declares,  on  his  word  as  a  gen- 
tleman, that  such  a  thing  is  impossible,  because 
the  desire  for  happiness  is  insatiable,  and  no  one 
can  be  happy  so  long  as  it  is  unsatisfied. 

"  Well,  then  ?  "  the  sorcerer  asks,  moodily  quer- 
ulous. 

"  Well,  then,"  answers  the  demon,  "  if  you 
think  it  worth  while  to  give  me  your  soul  before 
the  time,  behold  me  ready  to  oblige  you." 

Since  happiness,  then,  is  intangible,  the  wisest 
thing  to  do  is  to  try  to  be  as  little  unhappy  as 
possible.  One  of  the  chief  opponents  to  such 
a  state  of  being  is  evidently  discontent,  and  this, 
Leopardi  hints,  should  be  routed  at  any  cost, 
and  the  yawning  spectre  of  ennui  flung  with  it 
into  fettered  exile.  In  the  warmth  of  these  in- 
structions it  is  curious  to  note  how  Leopardi 
turns  on  himself,  so  to  speak,  and  recommends 
as  cure-all  the  very  activity  which  he  had  before 
proscribed.  In  his  dialogue  between  Columbus 
and  Gutierrez,  the  navigator  admits  to  his  dis- 
couraged companion  that  the  success  of  the  un- 


24     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

dertaking  is  far  from  certain ;  "  but,"  he  adds, 
"  even  if  no  other  benefit  accrue  from  our  voy- 
age, it  will  be  an  advantage  at  least  in  this  ;  it  has 
for  a  certain  time  delivered  us  from  boredom  ;  it 
has  made  us  love  life,  and  appreciate,  moreover, 
many  things  of  which  otherwise  we  would  have 
thought  nothing." 

It  should  not,  however,  be  supposed  that  Leo- 
pardi  had  no  higher  rule  of  life  than  that  which 
is  circumscribed  in  the  narrow  avoidance  of  dis- 
content. That  man  has  certain  duties  to  per- 
form, he  frequently  admitted,  but  he  denied  that 
he  owed  any  to  the  unconscious  and  tyrannical 
force  which  had  given  him  life.  "  I  will  never 
kiss,"  he  said,  "  the  hand  that  strikes."  Any  ob- 
ligation to  society  was  equally  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. "Society,"  he  noted  in  the  Pensieri,  "is 
a  league  of  blackguards  against  honest  men." 
Man's  duties  are  to  himself  alone ;  and  the  es- 
sence of  Leopardi's  ethics  (as,  indeed,  of  all  other 
ethics)  is  held  simply  in  the  recommendation  that 
virtue  and  self-esteem  be  preserved.  "  To  thine 
own  self  be  true,"  Polonius  had  said  long  before, 
and  to  this  Leopardi  had  nothing  to  add. 

The  illusions  which  hamper  life  have  been  so 
clearly  and  thoroughly  analyzed  by  other  think- 
ers, whose  conclusions  will  be  found  to  constitute 
the  groundwork  of  the  subsequent  part  of  this 
monograph,  that  it  will  be  unnecessary  at  this 
stage  to  examine  any  of  Leopardi's  theories  on 
this  subject,  save  such,  perhaps,  as  may  seem  to 
contain  original  views.  He  had,  as  has  been 


The  Genesis  of  Disenchantment.       25 

intimated,  a  thorough  contempt  for  life  :  "  It  is," 
he 'said,  "fit  but  to  be  despised."  Nostra  vita  a 
che  val,  sola  a  spregiarla.  He  was,  in  consequence, 
well  equipped  to  combat  the  illusion  which  leads 
so  many  to  imagine  that  were  their  circumstances 
different,  they  would  then  be  thoroughly  content. 
This  idea  is  presented  with  vivacious  ingenuity 
in  a  dialogue  between  a  man  peddling  calendars 
and  a  passer-by. 

It  runs  somewhat  as  follows :  — 

"  Calendars  !     New  calendars  !  " 

"  For  the  coming  year  ? " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Do  you  think  the  year  will  be  a  good  one  ? " 

"Yes,  indeed,  sir." 

"  As  good  as  last  year  ?  " 

"  Better,  sir,  —  better." 

"  As  year  before  last  ? " 

"  Much  better,  sir." 

"  But  would  n't  you  care  to  have  the  next  year 
like  any  of  the  past  years  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  I  would  not." 

"For  how  long  have  you  been  selling  calen- 
dars ? " 

"  Nearly  twenty  years,  sir." 

"  Well,  which  of  these  twenty  years  would  you 
wish  to  have  like  the  coming  one  ?  " 

"  I  ?     I  really  don't  know,  sir." 

"  Can't  you  remember  any  one  year  that  seemed 
particularly  attractive  ? " 

"  I  cannot,  indeed,  I  cannot." 

"  And  yet  life  is  very  pleasant,  is  n't  it  ? " 


26     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir,  we  all  know  that." 

"  Would  you  not  be  glad  to  live  these  twenty 
years  over  again  ?  " 

"  God  forbid,  sir." 

"  But  supposing  you  had  to  live  your  life  over 
again  ?  " 

"  I  would  not  do  it." 

"  But  what  life  would  you  care  to  live  ?  mine, 
for  instance,  or  that  of  a  prince,  or  of  some  other 
person  ?  " 

"  Ah,  sir,  what  a  question  ! " 

"  And  yet,  do  you  not  see  that  I,  or  the  prince, 
or  any  one  else,  would  answer  precisely  as  you 
do,  and  that  no  one  would  consent  to  live  his  life 
over  again  ? " 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  suppose  so." 

"Am  I  to  understand,  then,  that  you  would 
not  live  your  life  over  again  ? " 

"  No,  sir,  truly,  I  would  not." 

"  What  life  would  you  care  for,  then  ?  " 

"  I  would  like,  without  any  other  condition, 
such  a  life  as  God  might  be  pleased  to  give  me." 

"In  other  words,  one  which  would  be  happy- 
go-lucky,  and  of  which  you  would  know  no  more 
than  you  do  of  the  coming  year." 

"  Exactly." 

"  Well,  then,  that  is  what  I  would  like  too ;  it 
is  what  every  one  would  like,  and  for  the  sim- 
ple reason  that  up  to  this  time  there  is  no  one 
whom  chance  has  not  badly  treated.  Every  one 
agrees  that  the  misery  of  life  outbalances  its 
pleasure,  and  I  have  yet  to  meet  the  man  who 


The  Genesis  of  Disenchantment.       27 

would  care  to  live  his  old  life  over.  The  life 
which  is  so  pleasant  is  not  the  life  with  which  we 
are  personally  acquainted ;  it  is  another  life,  not 
the  life  that  we  have  lived,  but  the  life  which  is 
to  come.  Next  year  will  treat  us  all  better ;  it 
will  be  the  beginning  of  a  happy  existence.  Do 
you  not  think  it  will  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  I  hope  so,  sir." 

"  Show  me  your  best  calendar." 

"  This  one,  sir ;  it  is  thirty  soldi." 

"  Here  they  are." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,  long  life  to  you,  sir.  Calen- 
dars !  new  calendars  !  " 

There  are  few  scenes  as  clever  as  this,  and 
fewer  still  in  which  irony  and  humor  are  so  deli- 
cately blended  ;  and  yet,  notwithstanding  its  stud- 
ied bitterness,  there  is  little  doubt  that  its  author 
clearly  perceived  that  life  does  hold  one  or  two 
incontestable  charms. 

In  speaking  of  glory.  Pascal  noted  in  his  "  Pen- 
sees  "  that  even  philosophers  seek  it,  and  those 
who  wrote  it  down  wished  the  reputation  of  hav- 
ing written  it  down  well.  To  this  rule  Leopardi 
was  no  exception ;  he  admitted  as  much  on  sev- 
eral occasions  ;  and  even  if  he  had  not  done  so, 
the  fact  would  have  been  none  the  less  evident 
from  the  burnish  of  his  verse  and  the  purity  of 
his  prose,  which  was  not  that  of  a  writer  to 
whom  the  opinion  of  others  was  indifferent.  In 
the  essay,  therefore,  in  which  he  attacks  the  illu- 
sion of  literary  renown,  he  reminds  one  forcibly 
of  Byron  hurrying  about  in  search  of  the  visible 


28     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

isolation  which  that  simple-minded  poet  so  seri- 
ously pursued ;  and  yet  while  no  other  writer, 
perhaps,  has  been  more  thoroughly  given  to  pose 
than  the  author  of  "  Childe  Harold,"  there  are 
few  who  have  been  so  entirely  devoid  of  affec- 
tation as  Leopardi.  The  comparative  non-suc- 
cess of  his  writings,  however,  was  hardly  calcu- 
lated to  make  him  view  with  any  great  enthusiasm 
the  subject  of  literary  fame ;  and  as,  moreover, 
he  considered  it  his  mission  to  besiege  all  illu- 
sions, he  held  up  this  one  in  particular  as  a  se- 
ductive chimera  and  attacked  it  accordingly. 

In  the  "Ovvero  della  Gloria,"  he  says  reflect- 
ively :  "  Before  an  author  can  reach  the  public 
with  any  chance  of  being  judged  without  preju- 
dice, think  of  the  amount  of  labor  which  he  ex- 
pends in  learning  how  to  write,  the  difficulties 
which  he  has  to  overcome,  and  the  envious  voices 
which  he  must  silence.  And  even  then,  what 
does  the  public  amount  to  ?  The  majority  of 
readers  yawn  over  a  book,  or  admire  it  because 
some  one  else  has  admired  it  before  them.  It  is 
the  style  that  makes  a  book  immortal ;  and  as  it 
requires  a  certain  education  to  be  a  judge  of 
style,  the  number  of  connoisseurs  is  necessarily 
restricted.  But  beyond  mere  form  there  must 
also  be  depth,  and  as  each  class  of  work  presup- 
poses a  special  competence  on  the  part  of  the 
critic,  it  is  easy  to  see  how  narrow  the  tribunal  is 
which  decides  an  author's  reputation.  And  even 
then,  is  it  one  which  is  thoroughly  just  ?  In  the 
first  place,  the  critic,  even  when  competent, 


The  Genesis  of  Disenchantment.       29 

judges  —  and  in  that  he  is  but  human  —  accord- 
ing to  the  impression  of  the  moment,  and  accord- 
ing to  the  tastes  which  age  or  circumstances  have 
created.  If  he  is  young,  he  likes  brilliance  ;  old, 
he  is  unimpressionable.  Great  reputations  are 
made  in  great  cities,  and  it  is  there  that  heart 
and  mind  are  more  or  less  fatigued.  A  first  im- 
pression, warped  in  this  way,  may  often  become 
final ;  for  if  it  be  true  that  valuable  works  should 
be  re-read,  and  are  only  appreciated  with  time,  it 
is  also  true  that  at  the  present  time  very  few 
books  are  read  at  all.  Supposing,  however,  the 
most  favorable  case :  supposing  that  a  writer, 
through  the  suffrage  of  a  few  of  his  contempo- 
raries, is  certain  of  descending  to  posterity  as  a 
great  man,  —  what  is  a  great  man  ?  Simply  a 
name,  which  in  a  short  time  will  represent  noth- 
ing. The  opinion  of  the  beautiful  changes  with 
the  days,  and  literary  reputations  are  at  the 
mercy  of  their  variations  ;  as  to  scientific  works, 
they  are  invariably  surpassed  or  forgotten.  Now- 
adays, any  second-rate  mathematician  knows 
more  than  Galileo  or  Newton."  Genius,  then,  is 
a  sinister  gift,  and  its  attendant  glory  but  a  vain 
and  empty  shadow. 

The  life  of  Leopardi,  as  told  by  his  biogra- 
phers, is  poetically  suggestive  of  the  story  of  the 
pale  Armide,  who  burned  the  palace  that  en- 
chanted her;  and  the  similarity  becomes  still  more 
noticeable  when  he  is  found  hacking  and  hewing 
at  the  illusion  of  love.  Personally  considered, 
Leopardi  was  not  attractive ;  he  was  undersized, 


3O     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

slightly  deformed,  near-sighted,  prematurely  bald, 
nervous,  and  weak;  and  though  physical  disad- 
vantages are  often  disregarded  by  women,  and 
not  infrequently  inspire  a  compassion  which, 
properly  tended,  may  warm  into  love,  yet  when 
the  body,  weak  and  infirm  as  was  his,  incases  the 
strength  and  lurid  vitality  of  genius,  the  unlova- 
ble monstrosity  is  complete.  Indeed,  in  this  re- 
spect, it  may  be  noted  that  while  the  love  of  a 
delicate-minded  woman  for  a  coarse  and  stupid 
ruffian  is  an  anomaly  of  daily  repetition,  there  are 
yet  few  instances  in  which  genius,  even  when 
strong  of  limb,  has  succeeded  in  inspiring  a  great 
and  enduring  affection. 

Against  Leopardi,  then,  the  house  of  love  was 
doubly  barred.  When  he  was  about  nineteen,  he 
watched  the  usual  young  girl  who  lives  over  the 
way,  and  with  a  na'ivet'e  which  seems  exquisitely 
pathetic  he  made  no  sign,  but  simply  watched 
and  loved.  The  young  lady  does  not  appear  to 
have  been  in  any  way  conscious  of  the  mutely 
shy  adoration  which  her  beauty  had  fanned  into 
flame,  and  at  any  rate  paid  no  attention  to  the 
sickly  dwarf  across  the  street.  She  sat  very  plac- 
idly at  her  window,  or  else  fluttered  about  the 
room  humming  some  old-fashioned  air.  This 
went  on  for  a  year  or  more,  until  finally  she  was 
carried  away  in  a  rumbling  coach,  to  become  the 
willing  bride  of  another. 

This,  of  course,  was  very  terrible  to  Leopardi. 
Through  some  inductive  process,  which  ought  to 
have  been  brought  about  by  the  electric  currents 


The  Genesis  of  Disenchantment.        31 

which  he  was  establishing  from  behind  the  cur- 
tain, he  had  in  his  lawless  fancy  made  quite  sure 
that  his  love  would  sooner  or  later  be  felt  and 
reciprocated.  When,  therefore,  from  his  hiding 
place  he  saw  the  bride  depart  in  maiden  igno- 
rance of  her  conquest,  and  entirely  unconscious 
of  the  sonnets  which  had  been  written  in  her 
praise,  the  poet's  one  sweet  hope  faded  slowly 
with  her. 

This  pure  and  sedate  affection  remained  vi- 
brant in  his  memory  for  many  years,  and  formed 
the  theme  of  so  many  reveries  and  songs  that 
love  finally  appeared  to  him  as  but  another  form 
of  suffering.  In  after  life,  when  much  of  the 
lustre  of  youthful  candor  had  become  dull  and 
tarnished,  he  besieged  the  heart  of  another  lady, 
but  this  time  in  a  bolder  and  more  enterprising 
fashion.  His  suit,  however,  was  unsuccessful.  It 
may  be  that  he  was  too  eloquent ;  for  eloquence 
is  rarely  captivating  save  to  the  inexperienced, 
and  the  man  who  makes  love  in  rounded  phrases 
seems  to  the  practised  eye  to  be  more  artistic 
than  sincere.  At  all  events,  his  affection  was  not 
returned.  The  phantom  had  passed  very  close, 
but  all  he  had  clutched  was  the  air.  He  was 
soon  conscious,  however,  that  he  had  made  that 
mistake  which  is  common  to  all  imaginative  peo- 
ple :  it  was  not  the  woman  he  loved,  it  was  beauty ; 
not  woman  herself,  but  the  ideal.  It  was  a  con- 
ception that  he  had  fallen  in  love  with ;  a  concep- 
tion which  the  woman,  like  so  many  others,  had 
the  power  to  inspire,  and  yet  lacked  the  ability 


32      The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

to  understand.  This  time  Leopardi  was  done 
with  love,  and  forthwith  attacked  it  as  the  last, 
yet  most  tenacious,  of  all  illusions.  "  It  is,"  he 
said,  "  an  error  like  the  others,  but  one  which  is 
more  deeply  rooted,  because,  when  all  else  is 
gone,  men  think  they  clutch  therein  the  last 
shadow  of  departing  happiness.  Error  beato," 
he  adds,  and  so  it  may  be,  yet  is  he  not  well  an- 
swered by  that  sage  saying  of  Voltaire,  "  L'erreur 
aussi  a  son  merite  "  ? 

It  was  in  this  way  that  Leopardi  devastated  the 
palace  from  whose  feasts  he  had  been  excluded. 
At  every  step  he  had  taken  he  had  left  some 
hope  behind ;  he  had  been  dying  piecemeal  all 
his  life  ;  he  was  confessedly  miserable,  and  this 
not  alone  on  account  of  his  poverty  and  wretched 
health,  but  chiefly  because  of  his  lack  of  harmony 
with  the  realities  of  existence.  The  world  was  to 
him  the  worst  one  possible,  and  he  would  have 
been  glad  to  adorn  the  gate  of  life  with  the  sim- 
plicity of  Dante's  insistent  line,  — 

"  JLasciate  ogni  speranza  voi  ch'  entrate." 

"  There  was  a  time,"  he  said,  "  when  I  envied 
the  ignorant  and  those  who  thought  well  of  them- 
selves. To-day,  I  envy  neither  the  ignorant  nor 
the  wise,  neither  the  great  nor  the  weak ;  I  envy 
the  dead,  and  I  would  only  change  with  them." 

This,  of  course,  was  purely  personal.  Toward 
the  close  of  his  life  he  recognized  that  his  judg- 
ment had  been  in  a  measure  warped  by  the  pe- 
culiar misfortunes  of  his  own  position,  but  in  so 


The  Genesis  of  Disenchantment.         33 

doing  he  seemed  almost  to  be  depriving  himself 
of  a  last,  if  sad,  consolation.  Nor  did  he  ever 
wholly  recant,  and  it  is  in  the  conception  of  the 
universality  of  misery  which  stamped  all  his  writ- 
ings, and  which,  even  had  he  wished,  he  was  then 
powerless  to  alter,  that  his  relation  to  the  theo- 
retic pessimism  of  to-day  chiefly  rests. 

As  a  creed,  the  birthplace  of  pessimism  is  to 
be  sought  on  the  banks  of  the  Ganges,  or  far  back 
in  the  flower-lands  of  Nepaul,  where  the  initiate, 
with  every  desire  lulled,  awaits  Nirvana,  and  mur- 
murs only,  "  Life  is  evil." 

Now,  as  is  well  known,  in  every  religion  there 
is  a  certain  metaphysical  basis  which  is  designed 
to  supply  an  answer  to  man's  first  question ;  for 
while  the  animal  lives  in  undismayed  repose, 
man  of  all  created  things  alone  marvels  at  his 
own  existence  and  at  the  destruction  of  his  fel- 
lows. To  his  first  question,  then,  What  is  life 
and  death  ?  each  system  attempts  to  offer  a  per- 
fect reply ;  indeed,  the  temples,  cathedrals,  and 
pagodas  clearly  attest  that  man  at  all  times  and 
in  all  lands  has  continually  demanded  that  some 
reply  should  be  given,  and  it  is  perhaps  for  this 
very  reason  that  where  other  beliefs  have  found 
fervent  adherents,  neither  materialism  nor  skep- 
ticism have  been  ever  able  to  acquire  a  durable 
influence.  It  is,  however,  curious  to  note  that 
in  attempting  the  answer,  nearly  every  creed  has 
given  an  unfavorable  interpretation  to  life.  Aside 
from  the  glorious  lessons  of  Christianity,  its  teach- 
ing, in  brief,  is  that  the  world  is  a  vale  of  tears, 
3 


34      The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

that  nothing  here  can  yield  any  real  satisfaction, 
and  that  happiness,  which  is  not  for  mortals,  is 
solely  the  recompense  of  the  ransomed  soul.  To 
the  Brahmin,  while  there  is  always  the  hope  of 
absorption  in  the  Universal  Spirit,  life  meanwhile 
is  a  regrettable  accident.  But  in  Buddhism,  which 
is  perhaps  the  most  naive  and  yet  the  most  sub- 
lime of  all  religions,  and  which  through  its  very 
combination  of  simplicity  and  grandeur  appeals 
to  a  larger  number  of  adherents  than  any  other, 
pessimism  is  the  beginning,  as  it  is  the  end. 

To  the  Buddhist  there  is  reality  neither  in  the 
future  nor  in  the  past.  To  him  true  knowledge 
consists  in  the  perception  of  the  nothingness  of 
all  things,  in  the  consciousness  of  — 

"  The  vastness  of  the  agony  of  earth, 
The  vainness  of  its  joys,  the  mockery 
Of  all  its  best,  the  anguish  of  its  worst ; " 

and  in  the  desire  to  escape  from  the  evil  of  exist- 
ence into  the  entire  affranchisement  of  the  intel- 
ligence. To  the  Buddhist,  — 

..."  Sorrow  is 
Shadow  to  life,  moving  where  life  doth  move." 

The  Buddhist  believes  that  the  soul  migrates  until 
Nirvana  is  attained,  and  that  in  the  preparation 
for  this  state,  which  is  the  death  of  Death,  the 
nothingness  of  a  flame  extinguished,  there  are 
four  degrees.  In  the  first,  the  novitiate  learns 
to  be  implacable  to  himself,  yet  charitable  and 
compassionate  to  others.  He  then  acquires  an 
understanding  into  the  nature  of  all  things,  until 


The  Genesis  of  Disenchantment.         35 

he  has  suppressed  every  desire  save  that  of  at- 
taining Nirvana,  when  he  passes  initiate  into  the 
second  degree,  in  which  judgment  ceases.  In  the 
next  stage,  the  vague  sentiment  of  satisfaction, 
which  had  been  derived  from  intellectual  perfec- 
tion, is  lost,  and  in  the  last,  the  confused  con- 
sciousness of  identity  disappears.  It  is  at  this 
point  that  Nirvana  begins,  but  only  begins  and 
stretches  to  vertiginous  heights  through  four 
higher  degrees  of  ecstasy,  of  which  the  first  is  the 
region  of  infinity  in  space,  the  next,  the  realm  of 
infinity  in  intelligence,  then  the  sphere  in  which 
nothing  is,  and,  finally,  the  loss  of  even  the  per- 
ception of  nothing.  When  Death  is  dead,  when 
all  have  attained  Nirvana,  then,  according  to  the 
Buddhist,  the  universe  will  rock  forevermore  in 
unconscious  rest. 

In  brief,  then,  life  to  the  Christian  is  a  proba- 
tion, to  the  Brahmin  a  burden,  to  the  Buddhist  a 
dream,  and  to  the  pessimist  a  nightmare. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE   HIGH   PRIEST  OF   PESSIMISM. 

ARTHUR  SCHOPENHAUER,  the  founder  of  the 
present  school,  was  born  toward  the  close  of  the 
last  century,  in  the  now  mildewed  city  of  Dantzic. 
His  people  came  of  good  Dutch  stock,  and  were 
both  well-to-do  and  peculiar.  His  grandmother 
lost  her  reason  at  the  death  of  her  husband,  a 
circumstance  as  unusual  then  as  in  more  recent 
years;  his  two  uncles  passed  their  melancholy 
lives  on  the  frontiers  of  insanity,  and  his  father 
enjoyed  a  reputation  for  eccentricity  which  his 
end  fully  justified. 

This  latter  gentleman  was  a  rich  and  energetic 
merchant,  of  educated  tastes  and  excitable  dis- 
position, who,  when  well  advanced  in  middle  life, 
married  the  young  and  gifted  daughter  of  one  of 
the  chief  magnates  of  the  town.  Their  union 
was  not  more  unhappy  than  is  usually  the  case 
under  similar  circumstances,  his  time  being  gen- 
erally passed  with  his  ledger,  and  hers  with  the 
poets. 

With  increasing  years,  however,  his  untamable 
petulance  grew  to  such  an  extent  that  he  was  not 
at  all  times  considered  perfectly  sane,  and  it  is 


The  High  Priest  of  Pessimism.         37 

related  that  on  being  visited  one  day  by  a  life- 
long acquaintance,  who  announced  himself  as  an 
old  friend,  he  exclaimed,  with  abrupt  indignation, 
"  Friend,  indeed  !  there  is  no  such  thing ;  besides, 
people  come  here  every  day  and  say  they  are  this, 
that,  and  the  other.  I  don't  know  them,  and  I 
don't  want  to."  A  day  or  two  later,  he  met  the 
same  individual,  greeted  him  with  cheerful  cor- 
diality, and  led  him  amiably  home  to  dinner. 
Shortly  after,  he  threw  himself  from  his  ware- 
house to  the  canal  below. 

He  had  always  intended  that  his  son,  who  was 
then  in  his  sixteenth  year,  should  continue  the 
business ;  and  to  prepare  him  properly  for  his 
duties  he  had  christened  him  Arthur,  because  he 
found  that  name  was  pretty  much  the  same  in  all 
European  languages,  and  furthermore  had  sent 
the  lad  at  an  early  age  first  to  France,  and  then 
to  England,  that  he  might  gain  some  acquaint- 
ance and  familiarity  with  other  tongues. 

The  boy  liked  his  name,  and  took  naturally  to 
languages,  but  he  felt  no  desire  to  utilize  these 
possessions  in  the  depressing  atmosphere  of  com- 
mercial life,  and  after  his  father's  death  loitered 
first  at  the  benches  of  Gotha  and  then  at  those 
of  Gottingen. 

Meanwhile  his  mother  established  herself  at 
Weimar,  where  she  soon  attracted  to  her  all  that 
was  brilliant  in  that  brilliant  city.  Goethe,  Wie- 
land,  Fernow,  Falk,  Grimm,  and  the  two  Schle- 
gels  were  her  constant  guests.  At  court  she  was 
received  as  a  welcome  addition,  and  such  an  ef- 


38     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

feet  had  these  surroundings  upon  her  imagina- 
tion, that  in  not  very  many  years  she  managed  to 
produce  twenty-four  compact  volumes  of  criticism 
and  romance. 

During  this  time  her  son  was  not  idle.  Thor- 
oughly familiar  with  ancient  as  with  modern  lit- 
erature, he  devoted  his  first  year  at  Gottingen 
to  medicine,  mathematics  and  history ;  while  in 
his  second,  which  he  passed  in  company  with 
Bunsen  and  William  B.  Astor,  he  studied  physics, 
physiology,  psychology,  ethnology  and  logic  ;  as 
these  diversions  did  not  quite  fill  the  hour,  he 
aided  the  flight  of  idle  moments  with  a  guitar. 

He  was  at  this  time  a  singularly  good-looking 
young  man,  possessing  a  grave  and  expressive 
type  of  beauty,  which  in  after  years  developed 
into  that  suggestion  of  majestic  calm  for  which 
the  head  of  Beethoven  is  celebrated,  while  to  his 
lips  there  then  came  a  smile  as  relentlessly  im- 
placable as  that  of  Voltaire. 

From  boyhood  he  had  been  of  a  thoughtful 
disposition,  finding  wisdom  in  the  falling  leaf, 
problems  in  vibrating  light,  and  movement  in 
immobility.  Already  he  had  wrung  his  hands  at 
the  stars,  and  watched  the  distant  future  rise  with 
its  flouting  jeer  at  the  ills  of  man.  In  this,  how- 
ever, there  was  little  of  the  cheap  sentimentalism 
of  Byron,  and  less  of  the  weariness  of  Lamar- 
tine.  His  griefs  were  purely  objective  ;  life  to 
him  was  a  perplexing  riddle,  whose  true  meaning 
was  well  worth  a  search ;  and  as  the  only  possi- 
ble solution  of  the  gigantic  enigma  seemed  to  lie 


The  High  Priest  of  Pessimism.         39 

in  some  unexplored  depth  of  metaphysics,  he 
soon  after  betook  himself  to  Berlin,  where  Fichte 
then  reigned  as  Kant's  legitimate  successor.  But 
the  long-winded  demonstrations  that  Fichte  af- 
fected, his  tiresome  verbiage,  lit,  if  at  all,  only  by 
some  trivial  truism  or  trumpery  paradox,  bored 
Schopenhauer  at  first  well-nigh  to  death,  and 
then  worked  on  his  nerves  to  such  an  extent  that 
he  longed,  pistol  in  hand,  to  catch  at  his  throat, 
and  cry,  "  Die  like  a  dog  you  shall ;  but  for  your 
pitiful  soul's  sake,  tell  me  if  in  all  this  rubbish 
you  really  mean  anything,  or  take  me  simply  for 
an  imbecile  like  yourself."  For  Schopenhauer,  it 
should  be  understood,  had  passed  his  nights  first 
with  Plato  and  then  with  Kant ;  they  were  to 
him  like  two  giants  calling  to  one  another  across 
the  centuries,  and  that  this  huckster  of  phrases 
should  pretend  to  cloak  his  nakedness  with  their 
mantle  seemed  to  him  at  once  indecent  and  ab- 
surd. 

Schelling  pleased  him  no  better  ;  he  dismissed 
him  with  a  word,  —  mountebank  ;  but  for  Hegel, 
Caliban-Hegel  as  he  was  wont  in  after  years  to 
call  him,  his  contempt  was  so  violent  that,  with  a 
prudence  which  is  both  amusing  and  characteris- 
tic, he  took  counsel  from  an  attorney  as  to  the 
exact  limit  he  might  touch  in  abusing  him  with- 
out becoming  amenable  to  a  suit  for  defamation. 
"  Hegel's  philosophy,"  he  said,  "  is  a  crystalized 
syllogism  ;  it  is  an  abracadabra,  a  puff  of  bom- 
bast, and  a  wish-wash  of  phrases,  which  in  its 
monstrous  construction  compels  the  mind  to  form 


4O     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

impossible  contradictions,  and  in  itself  is  enough 
to  cause  an  entire  atrophy  of  the  intellect."  "  It 
is  made  up  of  three  fourths  nonsense  and  one 
fourth  error;  it  contains  words,  not  thoughts;" 
and  then,  rising  in  his  indignation  to  the  heights 
of  quotation,  he  added,  "  '  Such  stuff  as  madmen 
tongue  and  brain  not.'  "  Time,  it  may  be  noted, 
has  to  a  great  extent  indorsed  Schopenhauer's 
verdict.  The  tortures  of  Fichte,  Schelling,  and 
Hegel  linger  now  in  the  history  of  philosophy 
very  much  as  might  the  memory  of  a  nightmare, 
and  except  in  a  few  cobwebbed  halls  the  teach- 
ings of  the  three  sophists  may  safely  be  consid- 
ered as  a  part  of  the  inexplicable  past. 

It  should  not,  however,  be  supposed  that  be- 
cause he  found  the  philosophy  of  the  moment 
so  little  to  his  taste  he  necessarily  squandered 
his  time  ;  on  the  contrary,  he  turned  to  Aristotle 
and  Spinoza  for  consolation,  and  therewith  fol- 
lowed sundry  lectures  in  magnetism,  electricity, 
ichthyology,  amphiology,  ornithology,  zoology, 
and  astronomy,  all  of  which  he  enlivened  with 
rapid  incursions  to  the  rich  granaries  of  Rabelais 
and  Montaigne,  and  moreover  gave  no  little  time 
to  the  study  of  the  religion  and  philosophy  of 
India. 

It  was  at  this  time  characteristic  of  the  man, 
that  while  his  appearance,  wealth,  and  connec- 
tions would  have  formed  an  open  letter  to  the 
best  society  in  Berlin,  which  was  then  heteroge- 
neously  agreeable,  or  even  to  the  worst,  which  is 
said  to  have  been  charming,  he  preferred  to  pass 


The  High  Priest  of  Pessimism.         41 

his  leisure  hours  in  scrutinizing  the  animals  in 
the  Zoological  Gardens,  and  in  studying  the  in- 
mates of  the  State  Lunatic  Asylum. 

In  this  cita  dolente  his  attention  was  particularly 
claimed  by  two  unfortunates  who,  while  perfectly 
conscious  of  their  infirmity,  were  yet  unable  to 
master  it ;  in  proof  of  which,  one  wrote  him  a 
series  of  sonnets,  and  the  other  sent  him  anno- 
tated passages  from  the  Bible. 

In  the  second  year  of  his  student  life  at  Berlin 
the  war  of  1813  was  declared,  and  Schopenhauer 
was  in  consequence  obliged  to  leave  the  city  be- 
fore he  had  obtained  his  degree.  He  prepared, 
however,  and  forwarded  to  the  faculty  at  Jena  an 
elaborate  thesis,  which  he  entitled  the  Quadru- 
ple Root  of  Conclusive  Reason,  —  a  name  which 
somewhat  astounded  his  mother,  who  asked  him 
if  it  were  something  for  the  apothecary,  —  and 
meanwhile  prowled  about  Weimar  meditating  on 
the  philosophy  which  he  had  long  intended  to 
produce.  He  visited  no  one  but  Goethe,  took 
umbrage  at  his  mother's  probably  harmless  rela- 
tions with  Fernow,  treated  her  to  discourse  not 
dissimilar  to  that  which  Hamlet  had  addressed 
to  his  own  parent,  received  his  degree  from  Jena, 
and  then  went  off  to  Dresden,  where  he  began  to 
study  women  with  that  microscopic  eye  which 
he  turned  on  all  subjects  that  engaged  his  atten- 
tion. 

The  result  of  these  studies  was  an  essay  on 
the  metaphysics  of  love,  which  he  thereupon  at- 
tached to  his  budding  system  of  philosophy ;  an 


42     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

axiom  to  the  effect  that  women  are  rich  in  hair 
and  poor  in  thought ;  and  the  same  misadventure 
that  befell  Descartes. 

His  life  at  Dresden  was  necessarily  much  less 
secluded  than  that  to  which  he  had  been  hitherto 
accustomed  ;  he  became  an  habitut  at  the  opera 
and  comedy,  a  frequent  guest  in  literary  and  so- 
cial circles,  and,  as  student  of  men  and  things, 
he  went  about  disturbing  draperies  and  disar- 
ranging screens,  very  much  as  any  other  phi- 
losopher might  do  who  was  bent  on  seeing  the 
world. 

Meanwhile,  he  was  not  otherwise  idle:  the 
morning  he  gave  to  work,  and  in  the  afternoon 
he  surrendered  himself  to  Nature,  whom  he  loved 
with  a  passionate  devotion,  which  increased  with 
his  years.  The  companionship  of  men  was  al- 
ways more  or  less  irksome  to  him  ;  and  while  it 
was  less  so  perhaps  at  this  time  than  at  any 
other,  it  was  nevertheless  with  a  sense  of  relief 
that  he  struck  out  across  the  inviting  pasture- 
lands  of  Saxony,  or  down  the  banks  of  the  Elbe, 
and  left  humanity  behind,  in  search  of  that  open- 
air  solitude  which  is  Nature's  nearest  friend. 

In  the  companionship  of  others  he  was  con- 
stantly seeking  a  trait  or  a  suggestion,  some  hint 
capable  of  development ;  when  in  the  world, 
therefore,  he  flashed  a  lantern,  so  to  speak,  at 
people,  and  then  passed  them  by ;  but  in  the 
open  country  he  communed  with  himself,  and 
strolled  along,  note-book  in  hand,  jotting  down 
the  thoughts  worth  jotting  very  much  after  the 


The  High  Priest  of  Pessimism.        43 

manner  that  Emerson  is  said  to  have  recom- 
mended. 

With  regard  to  the  majority  of  men,  it  will 
not  seem  reckless  to  say  that  their  end  and  aim 
is  happiness  and  self-satisfaction  ;  but  however 
trite  the  remark  may  be,  it  may  still  perhaps 
serve  to  bring  into  relief  something  of  Schopen- 
hauer's distinctive  purpose.  It  would,  of  course, 
be  foolish  to  assert  that  he  did  not  care  for  his 
own  happiness,  and  disregarded  his  own  satisfac- 
tion, for  of  these  things  few  men,  it  is  imagined, 
have  thought  more  highly.  If  his  ideas  of  happi- 
ness diverged  widely  from  those  generally  received 
as  standards,  it  has  but  little  to  do  with  the  mat- 
ter in  hand,  for  the  point  which  is  intended  to 
be  conveyed  is  simply  that  above  all  other  things, 
beyond  the  culture  of  self,  that  which  Schopen- 
hauer cared  for  most  was  truth,  and  that  he  pur- 
sued it,  moreover,  as  pertinaciously  as  any  other 
thinker  whom  the  world  now  honors.  Whether 
he  ran  it  to  earth  or  not,  the  reader  must  him- 
self decide ;  indeed,  it  was  very  many  years  be- 
fore any  one  even  heard  that  he  had  been  chas- 
ing it  at  all.  Of  late,  however,  some  of  the  best 
pickets  who  guard  the  literary  outposts  from  Bos- 
Ion  to  Bombay  have  brought  a  very  positive  as- 
surance that  he  did  catch  it,  and,  moreover,  held 
it  fast  long  enough  to  wring  out  some  singularly 
valuable  intimations. 

In  hurrying  along  after  his  quarry,  Schopen- 
hauer became  convinced  that  life  was  a  lesson 
which  most  men  learned  trippingly  enough,  but 


44     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

whose  moral  they  failed  to  detect ;  and  this 
moral,  which  he  felt  he  had  caught  on  the  wing, 
as  it  were,  he  set  about  dissecting  with  a  great 
and  sumptuous  variety  of  reflection. 

Wandering,  then,  on  the  banks  of  the  Elbe, 
massing  his  thoughts  and  arranging  their  pro- 
gression, his  system  slowly  yet  gradually  expanded 
before  him.  He  wrote  only  in  moments  of  in- 
spiration, yet  his  hours  were  full  of  such  mo- 
ments ;  little  by  little  he  drifted  away  from  the 
opera  and  his  friends  into  a  solitude  which  he 
made  populous  with  thought,  and  in  this  manner 
gave  himself  up  so  entirely  to  his  philosophy  that 
one  day,  it  is  reported,  he  astonished  an  innocent- 
minded  gate-keeper,  who  asked  him  who  he  was, 
with  the  weird  and  pensive  answer,  "  Ah !  if  I 
but  knew,  myself ! " 

Meanwhile  his  work  grew  rapidly  beneath  his 
hands,  and  when  after  four  years  of  labor  and 
research  "  Die  Welt  als  Wille  und  Vorstellung  " 
was  so  far  completed  as  to  permit  its  publication, 
he  read  it  over  with  something  of  the  same  un- 
familiarity  which  he  would  have  experienced  in 
reading  the  work  of  another  author,  though, 
doubtless,  with  greater  satisfaction. 

Fascinated  with  its  merits,  he  offered  the  manu- 
script to  Brockhaus,  the  Leipsic  publisher.  "  My 
book,"  he  wrote,  "  is  a  new  system  of  philosophy, 
but  when  I  say  new  I  mean  new  in  every  sense 
of  the  word  ;  it  is  not  a  restatement  of  what  has 
been  already  expressed,  but  it  is  in  the  highest 
degree  a  continuous  flow  of  thought  such  as  has 


The  High  Priest  of  Pessimism.        45 

never  before  entered  the  mind  of  mortal  man. 
It  is  a  book  which,  in  my  opinion,  is  destined  to 
rank  with  those  which  form  the  source  and  incen- 
tive to  hundreds  of  others." 

Brockhaus,  familiar  with  the  proverbial  mod- 
esty of  young  authors,  lent  but  an  inattentive  ear 
to  these  alluring  statements,  and  accepted  the 
book  solely  on  account  of  the  reputation  which 
Schopenhauer's  mother  then  enjoyed  ;  a  mark  of 
confidence,  by  the  way,  which  he  soon  deeply  re- 
gretted. "  It  is  so  much  waste  paper,"  he  said, 
dismally,  in  after  years ;  "  I  wish  I  had  never 
heard  of  it."  He  lived  long  enough,  however,  to 
change  his  mind,  and  in  1880  his  successors  pub- 
lished a  stout  little  pamphlet  containing  the  titles 
of  over  five  hundred  books  and  articles,  of  which 
the  "  World  as  Will  and  Idea  "  formed  the  source 
and  incentive.  "  Le  monde,"  Montaigne  has 
quaintly  noted,  "  regorge  de  commentaires,  mais 
d'auteurs  il  en  est  grand  chierteV' 

Schopenhauer's  philosophy  first  appeared  in 
1818;  but  while  it  was  still  in  press,  its  author, 
like  one  who  has  sprung  a  mine  and  fears  the  re- 
port, fled  away  to  Italy,  where  he  wandered  about 
from  Venice  to  Naples  bathing  his  senses  in  color 
and  music.  He  associated  at  this  time  very  will- 
ingly with  Englishmen,  and  especially  with  Eng- 
lish artists  and  men  of  letters.  Germans  and 
Americans  he  avoided,  and  as  for  Jews,  he  not 
only  detested  them,  but  expressed  an  admiring 
approval  of  Nebuchadnezzar,  and  only  regretted 
that  he  had  been  so  lenient  with  them.  "  The 


46     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

Jews  are  God's  chosen  people,  are  they  ? "  he 
would  say,  "  very  good ;  tastes  differ,  they  cer- 
tainly are  not  mine."  In  this  dislike  he  made  no 
exception,  and  scenting  in  after  years  some  of 
the  factor  judaicus  on  Heine  and  Meyerbeer,  he 
refused  them  the  attention  which  others  were  only 
too  glad  to  accord.  Schopenhauer's  distaste,  how- 
ever, for  everything  that  savored  of  the  Israelite 
will  be  perhaps  more  readily  understood  when  it 
is  remembered  that  the  Jews,  as  a  race,  are  op- 
timists, and  their  creed,  therefore,  to  him,  in  his 
consistency,  was  like  the  aggressive  flag  to  the 
typical  bull. 

With  the  Germans  he  had  another  grievance. 
"The  Germans,"  he  said,  "are  heavy  by  nature  ; 
it  is  a  national  characteristic,  and  one  which  is 
noticeable  not  only  in  the  way  they  carry  them- 
selves, but  in  their  language,  their  fiction,  their 
conversation,  their  writings,  their  way  of  think- 
ing, and  especially  in  their  style  and  in  their 
mania  for  constructing  long  and  involved  sen- 
tences. In  reading  German,"  he  continued, 
"  memory  is  obliged  to  retain  mechanically,  as 
in  a  lesson,  the  words  that  are  forced  upon  it, 
until  after  patient  labor  a  period  is  reached,  the 
keynote  is  found,  and  the  meaning  disentangled. 
When  the  Germans,"  he  added,  "get  hold  of  a 
vague  and  unsuitable  expression  which  will  com- 
pletely obscure  their  meaning,  they  pat  them- 
selves on  the  back  ;  for  their  great  aim  is  to  leave 
an  opening  in  every  phrase,  through  which  they 
may  seem  to  come  back  and  say  more  than  they 


The  High  Priest  of  Pessimism.        47 

thought.  In  this  trick  they  excel,  and  if  they 
can  manage  to  be  emphatic  and  affected  at  the 
same  time,  they  are  simply  afloat  in  a  sea  of  joy. 
Foreigners  hate  all  this,  and  revenge  themselves 
in  reading  German  as  little  as  possible.  .  .  . 
Wherefore,  in  provision  of  my  death,  I  acknowl- 
edge that  on  account  of  its  infinite  stupidity  I 
loathe  the  German  nation,  and  that  I  blush  to 
belong  thereto." 

At  various  tables-d* hbte  Schopenhauer  had  en- 
countered traveling  Yankees,  and  objected  to 
them  accordingly.  "They  are,"  he  said,  "the 
plebs  of  the  world,  partly,  I  suppose,  on  account 
of  their  republican  government,  and  partly  be- 
cause they  descend  from  those  who  left  Europe 
for  Europe's  good.  The  climate,  too,"  he  added, 
reflectively,  "  may  have  something  to  do  with  it." 
Nor  did  Frenchmen  escape  his  satire.  "  Other 
parts  of  the  world  have  monkeys;  Europe  has 
Frenchmen,  fa  balance" 

But  with  Englishmen  he  got  on  very  well,  and 
during  his  after  life  always  talked  to  himself  in 
their  tongue,  wrote  his  memoranda  in  English, 
and  read  the  "  Times  "  daily,  advertisements  and 
all. 

Meanwhile  Schopenhauer  held  his  hand  to  his 
ear  unavailingly.  From  across  the  Alps  there 
came  to  him  no  echo  of  any  report,  only  a  silence 
which  was  ominous  enough  to  have  assured  any 
other  that  the  fusee  had  not  been  properly  ap- 
plied. But  to  him  it  was  different ;  he  had,  it  is 
true,  expected  a  reverberation  which  would  shake 


48     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

the  sophistry  of  all  civilization,  and  when  no 
tremor  came  he  was  mystified,  but  only  for  the 
moment.  He  had  been  too  much  accustomed  to 
seek  his  own  dead  in  the  great  morgue  of  litera- 
ture not  to  know  that  any  man,  who  is  to  belong 
to  posterity,  is  necessarily  a  stranger  to  his  epoch. 
And  that  he  was  to  belong  to  posterity  he  had  no 
possible  doubt ;  indeed  he  had  that  prescience  of 
genius  which  foresees  its  own  future,  and  he  felt 
that  however  tightly  the  bushel  might  be  closed 
over  the  light,  there  were  still  crevices  through 
which  it  yet  would  shine,  and  from  which  at  last 
some  conflagration  must  necessarily  burst. 

It  was  part  of  the  man  to  analyze  all  things, 
and  while  it  cannot  be  said  that  the  lack  of  at- 
tention with  which  his  philosophy  had  been  re- 
ceived left  him  entirely  unmoved,  it  would  be 
incorrect  to  suppose  that  he  was  then  sitting  on 
the  pins  and  needles  of  impatience. 

Deeply  reflective,  he  was  naturally  aware  that 
as  everything  which  is  exquisite  ripens  slowly,  so 
is  the  growth  of  fame  proportioned  to  its  durabil- 
ity. And  Schopenhauer  meant  to  be  famous,  and 
this  not  so  much  for  fame's  sake,  as  for  the  good 
which  his  fame  would  spread  with  it.  He  could 
therefore  well  afford  to  wait.  His  work  was  not 
written  especially  to  his  own  epoch,  save  only  in 
so  far  as  his  epoch  was  part  of  humanity  collec- 
tively considered.  It  did  not,  therefore,  take  him 
long  to  understand  that  as  his  work  was  not 
tinted  with  any  of  the  local  color  and  fugitive 
caprices  of  the  moment,  it  was  in  consequence 


The  High  Priest  of  Pessimism.        49 

unadapted  to  an  immediate  and  fictitious  vogue. 
Indeed,  it  may  be  added  that  the  history  of  art 
and  literature  is  eloquent  with  the  examples  of 
the  masterpieces  which,  unrewarded  by  contem- 
porary appreciation,  have  passed  into  the  wel- 
come of  another  age  ;  and  of  these  examples  few 
are  more  striking  than  that  of  the  absolute  indif- 
ference with  which  Schopenhauer's  philosophy 
was  first  received. 

It  was  presumably  with  reflections  of  this  na- 
ture that  Schopenhauer  shrugged  his  shoulders  at 
the  inattention  under  which  he  labored,  and  wan- 
dered serenely  among  the  treasuries  and  ghosts 
of  departed  Rome. 

About  this  time  an  incident  happened  which, 
while  not  possessing  any  very  vivid  interest,  so  af- 
fected his  after  life  as  to  be  at  least  deserving  of 
passing  notice.  Schopenhauer  was  then  in  his 
thirty-first  year.  On  coming  of  age,  he  had  re- 
ceived his  share  of  his  father's  property,  some  of 
which  he  securely  invested,  but  the  greater  part 
he  deposited  at  high  interest  with  a  well-known 
business  house  in  Dantzic.  When  leaving  for 
Italy,  he  took  from  this  firm  notes  payable  on 
demand  for  the  amount  which  they  held  to  his 
credit,  and  after  he  had  cashed  one  of  their  bills, 
learned  that  the  firm  was  in  difficulties.  Shortly 
after,  they  suspended  payment,  offering  thirty 
per  cent,  to  those  of  their  creditors  who  were 
willing  to  accept  such  an  arrangement,  and  noth- 
ing to  those  who  refused. 

All  the  creditors  accepted  save  Schopenhauer, 
4 


50     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

who,  with  the  wile  of  a  diplomat,  wrote  that  he 
was  in  no  hurry  for  his  money,  but  that  perhaps 
if  he  were  made  preferred  creditor  he  might  ac- 
cept a  better  offer.  His  debtors  fell  into  the 
trap,  and  offered  him  first  fifty,  and  then  seventy 
per  cent.  These  offers  he  also  refused.  "If," 
he  wrote,  "you  offer  me  thirty  per  cent,  when 
you  are  able  to  pay  fifty,  and  fifty  per  cent,  when 
you  are  able  to  pay  seventy^  I  have  good  reason 
to  suspect  that  you  can  pay  the  whole  amount. 
In  any  event,  my  right  is  perennial.  I  need  not 
present  my  notes  until  I  care  to.  Settle  with 
your  other  creditors,  and  then  you  will  be  in  a 
better  position  to  attend  to  me.  A  wise  man 
watches  the  burning  phoenix  with  a  certain  pleas- 
ure, for  he  well  knows  what  that  crafty  bird  does 
with  its  ashes.  Keep  my  money,  and  I  will  keep 
your  drafts.  When  your  affairs  are  straightened 
either  we  will  exchange,  or  you  will  be  arrested 
for  debt.  I  am,  of  course,  very  sorry  not  to  be 
able  to  oblige  you,  and  I  dare  say  you  think  me 
very  disagreeable,  but  that  is  only  an  illusion  of 
yours,  which  is  at  once  dispelled  when  you  re- 
member that  the  money  is  my  own,  and  that  its 
possession  concerns  my  lifelong  freedom  and 
well-being.  You  will  say,  perhaps,  that  if  all 
your  creditors  thought  as  I  do,  it  would  be  deuced 
hard  for  me.  But  if  all  men  thought  as  I  do, 
not  only  would  more  be  thought,  but  there  would 
probably  be  neither  bankrupts  nor  swindlers. 
Machiavelli  says,  Giacche  il  volgo  pensa  altri- 
mente,  —  although  the  common  herd  think  oth- 


The  High  Priest  of  Pessimism.        51 

wise,  —  ma  nel  mondo  non  6  se  non  volgo,  —  and 
the  world  is  made  up  of  the  common  herd,  —  e 
gli  pocchi  ivi  luogo  trovano,  —  yet  the  exceptions 
take  their  position,  —  dove  gli  mold  stare  non 
possono,  —  where  the  crowd  can  find  no  foot- 
hold." 

By  the  exercise  of  a  little  patience,  and  after  a 
few  more  dagger  thrusts  of  this  description, 
Schopenhauer  recovered  the  entire  amount  which 
was  due  him,  together  with  the  interest  in  full. 
But  the  danger  which  he  had  so  cleverly  avoided 
gave  him,  so  to  speak,  a  retrospective  shock ;  the 
possibility  of  want  had  brushed  too  near  for  com- 
fort's sake.  He  was  thoroughly  frightened ;  and 
in  shuddering  at  the  cause  of  his  fright  he  expe- 
rienced such  a  feeling  of  insecurity  with  regard 
to  what  the  future  might  yet  hold  that  he  deter- 
mined to  lose  no  time  in  seeking  a  remunerative 
shelter.  With  this  object  he  returned  to  Berlin, 
and  as  privat-docent  began  to  lecture  on  the  his- 
tory of  philosophy. 

Hegel  was  then  in  the  high  tide  of  his  glory. 
Scholars  from  far  and  near  came  to  listen  to  the 
man  who  had  compared  himself  to  Christ,  and 
said,  "  I  am  Truth,  and  teach  truth."  In  the 
"  Reisebilder,"  Heine  says  that  in  the  learned 
caravansary  of  Berlin  the  camels  collected  about 
the  fountain  of  Hegelian  wisdom,  kneeled  down, 
received  their  burden  of  precious  waters,  and 
then  set  out  across  the  desert  wastes  of  Branden- 
burg. 

At  that  time  not  to  bend  before  Hegel  was 


52     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

the  blackest  and  most  wanton  of  sins.  To  dis- 
agree with  him  was  heretical,  and  as  few  under- 
stood his  meaning  clearly  enough  to  attempt  to 
controvert  it,  it  will  be  readily  understood  that 
in  those  days  there  was  very  little  heresy  in  Ber- 
lin. 

Among  the  few,  however,  Schopenhauer  headed 
the  list.  "  I  write  to  be  understood,"  he  said ; 
and  indeed  no  one  who  came  in  contact  with  him 
or  with  his  works  had  ever  the  least  difficulty  in 
seizing  his  meaning  and  understanding  his  im- 
mense disgust  for  the  "  pachyderm  hydrocephali, 
pedantic  eunuchs,  apocaliptic  retinue  della  bestia 
triumphante,"  as  in  after  years,  with  gorgeous 
emphasis,  he  was  wont  to  designate  Hegel  and 
his  clique.  The  war  that  he  waged  against 
them  was  truly  Homeric.  He  denounced  Hegel 
in  a  manner  that  would  have  made  Swinburne 
blush ;  then  he  attacked  the  professors  of  phi- 
losophy in  general  and  the  Hegelians  in  partic- 
ular, and  finally  the  demagogues  who  believed 
in  them,  and  who  had  baptized  themselves 
"Young  Germany." 

For  the  preparation  of  such  writings  as  theirs 
he  had  a  receipt,  which  was  homeopathic  in  its 
simplicity.  "  Dilute  a  minimum  of  thought  in 
five  hundred  pages  of  nauseous  phraseology,  and 
for  the  rest  trust  to  the  German  patience  of  the 
reader."  He  also  suggested  that  for  the  wonder 
and  astonishment  of  posterity  every  public  li- 
brary should  carefully  preserve  in  half  calf  the 
complete  works  of  the  great  philosophaster  and 


The  High  Priest  of  Pessimism.         53 

his  adorers  ;  and,  considering  very  correctly  that 
philosophers  cannot  be  hatched  like  bachelors  of 
arts,  he  further  recommended  that  the  course  in 
philosophy  should  be  cut  from  the  University 
programmes,  and  the  teaching  in  that  branch  be 
limited  to  logic.  "  You  can't  write  an  Iliad,"  he 
said,  "  when  your  mother  is  a  dolt,  and  your  fa- 
ther is  a  cotton  nightcap." 

There  are  few  debts  which  are  so  faithfully 
acquitted  as  those  of  contempt ;  and  as  Scho- 
penhauer kicked  down  every  screen,  tore  off 
every  mask,  and  jeered  at  every  sham,  it  would 
be  a  great  stretch  of  fancy  to  imagine  that  he 
was  a  popular  teacher.  But  this  at  least  may  be 
said :  he  was  courageous,  and  he  was  strong  of 
purpose.  In  the  end,  he  dragged  Germany  from 
her  lethargy,  and  rather  than  take  any  other  part 
in  Hegelism  than  that  of  spectre  at  the  feast,  he 
condemned  himself  to  an  almost  lifelong  obscur- 
ity. If,  therefore,  he  seems  at  limes  too  bitter 
and  too  relentless,  it  should  be  remembered  that 
this  man,  whom  Germany  now  honors  as  one  of 
her  greatest  philosophers,  fought  single-handed 
for  thirty  years,  and  routed  the  enemy  at  last  by 
the  mere  force  and  lash  of  his  words. 

But  in  the  mean  time,  while  Hegel  was  holding 
forth  to  crowded  halls,  his  rival,  who,  out  of  sheer 
bravado,  had  chosen  the  same  hours,  lectured  to 
an  audience  of  about  half  a  dozen  persons, 
among  whom  a  dentist,  a  horse-jockey,  and  a 
captain  on  half  pay  were  the  more  noteworthy. 
Such  listeners  were  hardly  calculated  to  make 


54      The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

him  frantically  attached  to  the  calling  he  had 
chosen,  and  accordingly  at  the  end  of  the  first 
semester  he  left  the  empty  benches  to  take  care 
of  themselves. 

Early  in  life  Schopenhauer  wrote  in  English,  in 
his  note-book,  "  Matrimony  —  war  and  want ! "  and 
when  the  privat-docent  had  been  decently  buried, 
and  the  crape  grown  rusty,  he  began  to  consider 
this  little  sentence  with  much  attention.  As  will 
be  seen  later  on,  he  objected  to  women  as  a  class 
on  purely  logical  grounds,  —  they  interfered  with 
his  plan  of  delivering  the  world  from  suffering  ; 
but  against-  the  individual  he  had  no  marked  dis- 
like, only  a  few  pleasing  epigrams.  During  his 
Dresden  sojourn,  as  in  his  journey  to  Italy,  he 
had  knelt,  in  his  quality  of  philosopher  who  was 
seeing  the  world,  at  many  and  diverse  shrines, 
and  had  in  no  sense  wandered  from  them  sorrow- 
laureled  ;  but  all  that  had  been  very  different 
from  assuming  legal  responsibilities,  and  when- 
ever he  thought  with  favor  of  the  petits  soins  of 
which,  as  married  man,  he  would  be  the  object, 
the  phantom  of  a  milliner's  bill  loomed  in  double 
columns  before  him. 

Should  he  or  should  he  not,  he  queried,  fall 
into  the  trap  which  nature  has  set  for  all  men  ? 
The  question  of  love  did  not  enter  into  the  mat- 
ter at  all.  He  believed  in  love  as  most  well- 
read  people  believe  in  William  Tell ;  that  is, 
as  something  very  inspiring,  especially  when 
treated  by  Rossini,  but  otherwise  as  a  myth. 
Nor  did  he  need  Montaigne's  hint  to  be  assured 


The  High  Priest  of  Pessimism.         55 

that  men  marry  for  others  and  not  for  them- 
selves. The  subject,  therefore,  was  somewhat 
complex :  on  the  one  side  stood  the  attention  and 
admiration  which  he  craved,  and  on  the  other 
an  eternal  farewell  to  that  untrammeled  freedom 
which  is  the  thinker's  natural  heath. 

The  die,  however,  had  to  be  cast  then  or  never. 
He  was  getting  on  in  life,  and  an  opportunity 
had  at  that  time  presented  itself,  a  repetition  of 
which  seemed  unlikely.  After  much  reflection, 
and  much  weighing  of  the  pros  and  cons,  he 
concluded  that  it  is  the  married  man  who  sup- 
ports the  full  burden  of  life,  while  the  bachelor 
bears  but  half,  and  it  is  to  the  latter  class,  he 
argued,  that  the  courtesan  of  the  muses  should 
belong.  Thereupon,  with  a  luxury  of  reminis- 
cence and  quotation  which  was  usual  to  him  at 
all  times,  he  strengthened  his  resolution  with 
mental  foot-notes,  to  the  effect  that  Descartes, 
Leibnitz,  Malebranche,  and  Kant  were  bachelors, 
the  great  poets  uniformly  married  and  uniformly 
unhappy;  and  supported  it  all  with  Bacon's  state- 
ment that  "  he  that  hath  wife  and  children  has 
given  hostages  to  fortune,  for  they  are  impedi- 
ments to  great  enterprises,  either  of  virtue  or  of 
mischief." 

In  1831  the  cholera  appeared  in  Berlin,  and 
Schopenhauer,  who  called  himself  a  choleraphobe 
by  profession,  fled  before  it  in  search  of  a  milder 
and  healthier  climate.  Frankfort  he  chose  for 
his  hermitage,  and  from  that  time  up  to  the  day 
of  his  death,  which  occurred  in  September,  1860, 


56      The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

he  continued  to  live  there  in  great  peace  and 
tranquillity. 

Schopenhauer  should  in  no  wise  be  repre- 
sented as  having  passed  his  life  in  building  dun- 
geons in  Spain.  Like  every  true  scholar  he  was, 
in  the  absence  of  his  peers,  able  to  live  with 
great  comfort  with  the  dead.  He  was  something 
of  a  Mezzofanti ;  he  spoke  and  read  half  a  dozen 
languages  with  perfect  ease,  and  he  could  in  con- 
sequence enter  any  library  with  the  certainty  of 
finding  friends  and  relations  therein.  For  the 
companionship  of  others  he  did  not  care  a  rap. 
He  was  never  so  lonely  as  when  associating  with 
other  people,  and  of  all  things  that  he  disliked 
the  most,  and  a  catalogue  of  his  dislikes  would 
fill  a  chapter,  the  so-called  entertainment  headed 
the  obnoxious  list. 

He  had  taken  off,  one  by  one,  the  different  lay- 
ers of  the  social  nut,  and  in  nibbling  at  the  kernel 
he  found  its  insipidity  so  great  that  he  had  small 
approval  for  those  who  made  it  part  of  their  ordi- 
nary diet.  It  should  not,  however,  be  supposed 
that  this  dislike  for  society  and  the  companion- 
ship of  others  sprang  from  any  of  that  necessity 
for  solitude  which  is  noticeable  in  certain  cases  of 
hypochondria  ;  it  was  simply  due  to  the  fact  that 
he  could  not,  in  the  general  run  of  men,  find  any 
one  with  whom  he  could  associate  on  a  footing 
of  equality.  If  Voltaire,  Helvetius,  Kant,  or  Ca- 
banais,  or,  for  that  matter,  any  one  possessed  of 
original  thoughts,  had  dwelled  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, Schopenhauer,  once  in  a  while,  would  have 


The  High  Priest  of  Pessimism.         57 

delighted  in  supping  with  them ;  but  as  agreeable 
symposiasts  were  infrequent,  he  was  of  necessity 
thrown  entirely  on  his  own  resources.  His  his- 
tory, in  brief,  is  that  of  the  malediction  under 
which  king  and  genius  labor  equally.  Both  are 
condemned  to  solitude  j  and  for  solitude  such  as 
theirs  there  is  neither  chart  nor  compass.  Of 
course  .there  are  many  other  men  who  in  modern 
times  have  also  led  lives  of  great  seclusion,  but 
in  this  respect  it  may  confidently  be  stated  that 
no  thinker  of  recent  years,  Thoreau  not  excepted, 
has  ever  lived  in  isolation  more  thorough  and 
complete  than  that  which  was  enjoyed  by  this 
blithe  misanthrope. 

It  is  not  as  though  he  had  betaken  himself  to 
an  unfrequented  waste,  or  to  the  top  of  an  inac- 
cessible crag ;  such  behavior  would  have  savored 
of  an  affectation  of  which  he  was  incapable,  and, 
moreover,  would  have  told  its  story  of  an  inabil- 
ity to  otherwise  resist  the  charms  of  society.  Be- 
sides, Schopenhauer  was  no  anchorite ;  he  lived 
very  comfortably  in  the  heart  of  a  populous  and 
pleasant  city,  and  dined  daily  at  the  best  table 
d'hote,  but  he  lived  and  dined  utterly  alone. 

He  considered  that,  as  a  rule,  a  man  is  never 
in  perfect  harmony  save  with  himself,  for,  he 
argued,  however  tenderly  a  friend  or  mistress 
may  be  beloved,  there  is  at  times  some  clash  and 
discord.  Perfect  tranquillity,  he  said,  is  found 
only  in  solitude,  and  to  be  permanent  only  in  ab- 
solute seclusion  ;  and  he  insisted  that  the  hermit, 
if  intellectually  rich,  enjoys  the  happiest  condi- 


58      The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

tion  which  this  life  can  offer.  The  love  of  soli- 
tude, however,  can  hardly  be  said  to  exist  in  any 
one  as  a  natural  instinct ;  on  the  contrary,  it  may 
be  regarded  as  an  acquired  taste,  and  one  which 
must  be  developed  in  indirect  progression.  Scho- 
penhauer, who  cultivated  it  to  its  most  supreme 
expression,  admitted  that  at  first  he  had  many 
fierce  struggles  with  the  natural  instinct  of  socia- 
bility, and  at  times  had  strenuously  combated 
some  such  Mephistophelian  suggestion  as, — 

"  H6r'  auf,  mit  deinem  Gram  zu  spielen, 
Der,  wie  ein  Geier,  dir  am  Leben  frisst : 
Die  schlechteste  Gesellschaft  lasst  dich  fiihlen 
Dass  du  ein  Mensch,  mit  Menschen  bist." 

But  solitude,  more  or  less  rigid,  is  undoubtedly 
the  lot  of  all  superior  minds.  They  may  grieve 
over  it,  as  Schopenhauer  says,  but  of  two  evils 
they  will  choose  it  as  the  least.  After  that,  it  is 
presumably  but  a  question  of  getting  acclimated. 
In  old  age  the  inclination  comes,  he  notes,  al- 
most of  itself.  At  sixty  it  is  well-nigh  instinc- 
tive ;  at  that  age  everything  is  in  its  favor.  The 
incentives  which  are  the  most  energetic  in  be- 
half of  sociability  then  no  longer  act.  With  ad- 
vancing years  there  arises  a  capacity  of  sufficing 
to  one's  self,  which  little  by  little  absorbs  the 
social  instinct.  Illusions  then  have  faded,  and, 
ordinarily  speaking,  active  life  has  ceased.  There 
is  nothing  more  to  be  expected,  there  are  no 
plans  nor  projects  to  form,  the  generation  to 
which  old  age  really  belongs  has  passed  away, 
and,  surrounded  by  a  new  race,  one  is  then  ob- 
jectively and  essentially  alone. 


The  High  Priest  of  Pessimism.          59 

Then,  too,  many  things  are  clearly  seen,  which 
before  were  as  veiled  by  a  mist.  As  the  result 
of  long  experience  very  little  is  expected  from 
the  majority  of  people,  and  the  conclusion  is  gen- 
erally reached  that  not  only  men  do  not  improve 
on  acquaintance,  but  that  mankind  is  made  up  of 
very  defective  copies,  with  which  it  is  best  to  have 
as  little  to  do  as  possible. 

But  beyond  converting  his  life  into  a  mono- 
drama  with  reflections  of  this  description,  Scho- 
penhauer considered  himself  to  be  a  missionary 
of  truth,  and  in  consequence  as  little  fitted  for 
every-day  companionship  as  missionaries  in  China 
feel  themselves  called  upon  to  fraternize  with  the 
Chinese.  It  was  the  rule  of  his  life  to  expect 
nothing,  desire  as  little  as  possible,  and  learn  all 
he  could,  and  as  little  was  to  be  expected  and 
nothing  was  to  be  learned  from  the  majority  of 
the  dull  ruffians  who  go  to  the  making  of  the 
census,  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  that  he  trod  the 
thoroughfares  of  thought  alone  and  dismissed 
the  majority  of  men  with  a  shrug. 

"They  are,"  he  said,  "just  what  they  seem  to 
be,  and  that  is  the  worst  that  can  be  said  of 
them."  Epigrams  of  this  description  were  natu- 
rally not  apt  to  increase  his  popularity.  But  for 
that  he  cared  very  little.  He  considered  that  no 
man  can  judge  another  save  by  the  measure  of 
his  own  understanding.  Of  course,  if  this  under- 
standing is  of  a  low  degree,  the  greatest  intel- 
lectual gifts  which  another  may  possess  convey 
to  him  no  meaning ;  they  are  as  colors  to  the 


60     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

blind ;  and  consequently,  in  a  great  nature  there 
will  be  noticed  only  those  defects  and  weaknesses 
which  are  inseparable  from  every  character. 

But  to  such  a  man  as  Schopenhauer, — one 
who  considered  five  sixths  of  the  population  to 
be  knaves  or  blockheads,  and  who  had  thought 
out  a  system  for  the  remaining  fraction,  —  to  such 
a  man  as  he,  the  question  of  esteem,  or  the  lack 
thereof,  was  of  small  consequence.  He  cared 
nothing  for  the  existence  which  he  led  in  the 
minds  of  other  people.  To  his  own  self  he  was 
true,  to  the  calling  of  his  destiny  constant,  and 
he  felt  that  he  could  sit  and  snap  his  fingers  at 
the  world,  knowing  that  Time,  who  is  at  least  a 
gentleman,  would  bring  him  his  due  unasked. 

Schopenhauer's  character  was  made  up  of  that 
combination  of  seeming  contradictions  which  is 
the  peculiarity  of  all  great  men.  He  had  the  au- 
dacity of  childhood  and  the  timidity  of  genius. 
He  was  suspicious  of  every  one,  and  ineffably 
kind-hearted.  With  stupidity  in  any  form  he  was 
blunt,  even  to  violence,  and  yet  his  manner  and 
courtesy  were  such  as  is  attributed  to  the  gentle- 
men of  the  old  school.  If  he  was  an  egotist,  he 
was  also  charitable  to  excess ;  and  who  shall  say 
that  charity  is  not  the  egotism  of  great  natures  ? 
He  was  honesty  itself,  and  yet  thought  every  one 
wished  to  cheat  him.  To  mislead  a  possible  thief 
he  labeled  his  valuables  Arcana  Medica,  put  his 
banknotes  in  dictionaries,  and  his  gold  pieces  in 
ink  bottles.  He  slept  on  the  ground  floor,  that  he 
might  escape  easily  in  case  of  fire.  If  he  heard 


The  High  Piiest  of  Pessimism.       61 

a  noise  at  night  he  snatched  at  a  pistol,  which  he 
kept  loaded  at  his  bedside.  Indeed,  he  might 
have  chosen  for  his  motto,  "  Je  ne  crains  rien 
fors  le  dangier,"  and  yet  who  is  ever  so  foolish  as 
a  wise  man  ?  Kant's  biography  is  full  of  similar 
vagaries,  and  one  has  but  to  turn  to  the  history 
of  any  of  the  thinkers  whose  names  are  land- 
marks in  literature,  to  find  that  eccentricities  no 
less  striking  have  also  been  recorded  of  them. 

Voltaire  said,  "  On  aime  la  vie,  mais  le  neant 
ne  laisse  pas  d'avoir  du  bon  ;"  and  Schopenhauer, 
not  to  be  outdone,  added  more  massively,  that  if 
one  could  tap  on  the  tombs  and  ask  the  dead 
if  they  cared  to  return,  they  would  shake  their 
heads.  His  views  of  life,  however,  and  of  the 
world  in  general,  will  be  considered  later  on,  and 
for  the  moment  it  is  but  necessary  to  note  that 
he  regarded  happiness  as  consisting  solely  in  the 
absence  of  pain,  and  laid  down  as  one  of  the  su- 
preme rules  for  the  proper  conduct  of  life  that 
discontent  should  be  banished  as  far  as  possible 
into  the  outer  darkness. 

When,  therefore,  to  this  Emerson  in  black  there 
came  those  moments  of  restlessness  and  dissatis- 
faction which  visit  even  the  most  philosophic,  he 
would  argue  with  himself  in  a  way  which  was  al- 
most pathetic,  and  certainly  naive ;  it  was  not  he 
that  was  moody  and  out  of  sorts,  it  was  some 
privat-docent  lecturing  to  empty  halls,  some  one 
who  was  abused  by  the  Philistines,  some  defend- 
ant in  a  suit  for  damages,  some  one  whose  for- 
tune was  engulfed  perhaps  beyond  recovery, 


62     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

some  lover  pleading  to  inattentive  ears,  some 
one  attacked  by  one  of  the  thousand  ills  that 
flesh  is  heir  to  ;  yet  this  was  not  he  ;  these  things 
truly  he  might  have  endured  and  suffered  as  one 
bears  for  a  moment  an  ill-made  shoe,  but  now 
the  foot  no  longer  ached  ;  indeed,  he  was  none 
of  all  this,  he  was  the  author  of  the  "  Welt  als 
Wille  und  Vorstellung,"  and  what  had  the  days 
to  do  with  him  ! 

But  through  all  the  intervening  years  the  book 
had  lain  unnoticed  on  the  back  shelves  of  the 
Leipsic  publisher ;  and  Schopenhauer,  who  had  at 
first  been  puzzled,  but  never  disheartened,  at  the 
silence  which  had  settled  about  it,  became  con- 
vinced that  through  the  influence  of  the  three 
sophists  at  Berlin,  all  mention  of  its  merit  had 
been  suppressed  from  the  start. 

"  I  am,"  he  said,  "  the  Iron  Mask,  the  Caspar 
Hauser  of  philosophy,"  and  thereupon  he  pic- 
tured the  Hegelians  as  looking  admiringly  at  his 
system,  very  much  as  the  man  in  the  fairy  tale 
looked  at  the  genie  in  the  bottle  which,  had  he  al- 
lowed it  to  come  out,  would  carry  him  off.  Truth, 
however,  which  is  long-lived,  can  always  afford  to 
wait ;  and  Schopenhauer,  with  something  of  the 
complacency  of  genius  that  is  in  advance  of  its 
era,  held  his  fingers  on  the  public  pulse  and  noted 
the  quickening  which  precedes  a  return  to  con- 
sciousness. Germany  was  waking  from  her  tor- 
por. Already  the  influence  of  Hegel  had  begun 
to  wane;  his  school  was  split  into  factions,  and 
his  philosophy,  which  in  solving  every  problem 


The  High  Priest  of  Pessimism.       63 

had  left  the  world  nothing  to  do  but  to  bore  it- 
self to  death,  was  slowly  falling  into  disrepute. 
Moreover,  the  great  class  of  unattached  scholars 
and  independent  thinkers,  who  cared  as  little  for 
University  dogmas  as  they  did  for  the  threats  of 
the  Vatican,  were  earnestly  watching  for  some 
new  teacher. 

Schopenhauer  was  watching  too ;  he  knew  that 
a  change  was  coming,  and  that  he  would  come 
in  with  the  change.  He  had  but  to  wait.  "  My 
extreme  unction,"  he  said,  "  will  be  my  baptism  j 
my  death,  a  canonization." 

Meanwhile  old  age  had  come  upon  him  un- 
awares, but  with  it  the  rich  fruition  of  lifelong 
study  and  reflection.  The  perfect  tranquility  in 
which  he  passed  his  days  had  been  utilized  in 
strengthening  and  expanding  his  work,  and  in 
1843,  in  his  fifty-sixth  year,  the  second  and  com- 
plementary volume  of  his  philosophy  was  com- 
pleted. 

Twelve  months  later  he  wrote  to  Brockhaus, 
his  publisher  :  — 

"  I  may  tell  you  in  confidence  that  I  am  so 
well  pleased  with  this  second  volume,  now  that  I 
see  it  in  print,  that  I  really  think  it  will  be  a  great 
success.  ...  If,  now,  in  return  for  this  great 
work,  you  are  willing  to  do  me  a  very  little  favor, 
and  one  that  is  easily  performed,  I  will  beg  you 
each  Easter  to  let  me  know  how  many  copies 
have  been  sold." 

For  two  years  he  heard  nothing,  then  in  answer 
to  a  letter  from  him,  Brockhaus  wrote  :  — 


64     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

"  In  reply  to  your  inquiry  concerning  the  sale 
of  your  book,  I  can  only  tell  you  that,  to  my  sor- 
row, I  have  made  a  very  poor  business  out  of  it. 
Further  particulars  I  cannot  enter  into." 

"  Many  a  rose,"  Schopenhauer  murmured,  as 
he  refolded  the  note  and  turned  to  other  things. 

In  1850,  when,  after  six  years'  daily  labor,  he 
had  completed  his  last  work.  "  Parerga  und  Para- 
lipomena,"  his  literary  reputation  was  still  so  in- 
significant that  Brockhaus  refused  to  publish  it. 
Schopenhauer  then  offered  it,  unavailingly,  to  half 
a  dozen  other  publishers.  No  one  would  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  it ;  the  name  which  it  bore  would 
have  frightened  a  pirate,  and  the  boldest  in  the 
guild  was  afraid  to  examine  its  contents.  "  One 
thing  is  certain,"  said  Schopenhauer,  reflectively, 
"  I  am  unworthy  of  my  contemporaries,  or  they  of 
me."  The  "  Parerga,"  however,  in  spite  of  the 
lack  of  allurement  in  its  title,  was  not  destined 
to  wither  in  manuscript.  After  much  reconnoi- 
tring a  publisher  was  discovered  in  Berlin  who, 
unwillingly,  consented  to  produce  it,  and  there- 
upon two  volumes  of  the  most  original  and  en- 
tertaining essays  were  given  to  the  public.  For 
this  work  Schopenhauer  received  ten  copies  in 
full  payment. 

Meanwhile  a  few  adherents  had  rallied  about 
him.  Brockhaus,  in  an  attempt  to  make  the  best 
of  a  bad  bargain,  had  marked  the  "  Welt "  down 
to  the  lowest  possible  price,  and  a  few  copies 
had  in  consequence  fallen  into  intelligent  hands. 
Amons:  its  readers  there  were  some  who  came  to 


The  High  Priest  of  Pessimism.       65 

Frankfort  to  make  the  author's  acquaintance ;  a 
proceeding  which  pleased,  yet  alarmed  Schopen- 
hauer not  a  little. 

One  of  them  wrote  to  people  with  whom  he 
was  unacquainted,  advising  them  to  read  the 
work  at  once.  "  He  is  a  fanatic,"  said  Schopen- 
hauer, in  complacent  allusion  to  him,  "  a  fanatic, 
that 's  what  he  is." 

Dr.  Gwinner,  his  subsequent  biographer,  whom 
he  met  about  this  time,  was  his  apostle,  while  Dr. 
Frauenstadt,  another  Boswell,  whose  acquaint- 
ance he  made  at  table  d'hote,  he  called  his  arch- 
evangelist,  and,  not  without  pathos,  repeated  to 
him  Byron's  seductive  lines,  — 

"  In  the  desert  a  fountain  is  springing, 

In  the  white  waste  there  still  is  a  tree, 
And  a  bird  in  the  solitude  singing, 
That  speaks  to  my  spirit  of  thee." 

These  gentlemen,  together  with  a  few  others, 
made  up  a  little  band  of  sturdy  disciples,  who 
weni  about  wherever  they  could,  speaking  and 
writing  of  the  merits  of  Schopenhauer's  philoso- 
phy. But  the  first  note  of  acclamation  which, 
historically  speaking,  was  destined  to  arouse  the 
thinking  world,  came,  curiously  enough,  from 
England. 

In  1853  the  "Westminster  Review"  published 
a  long  and  laudatory  article  on  Schopenhauer's 
philosophy ;  and  this  article  Lindner,  the  editor 
of  the  "Vossiche  Zeitung,"  to  whom  Schopen- 
hauer had  given  the  title  of  doctor  indcfatigabilis, 
reproduced  in  his  own  journal.  In  the  following 
5 


66     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

year  Dr.  Frauenstadt  published,  in  a  well-written 
pamphlet *  which  only  needed  a  little  more  order 
and  symmetry  to  be  a  valuable  handbook,  a  com- 
plete exposition  of  the  doctrine ;  and  the  ap- 
plause thus  stimulated  reechoed  all  over  Ger- 
many. The  "  Welt  als  Wille  und  Vorstellung," 
the  "  World  as  Will  and  Idea,"  which  for  so  many 
years  had  lain  neglected,  was  dragged  from  its 
musty  shelf  like  a  Raphael  from  a  lumber-room  ; 
and  the  fame  to  which  Schopenhauer  had  not 
made  a  single  step  came  to  him  as  fame  should, 
unsought  and  almost  unbidden. 

"  My  old  age,"  he  said,  "  is  brighter  now  than 
most  men's  youth,  for  time  has  brought  its  roses 
at  last ;  but  see,"  he  added,  touching  his  silvered 
hair,  "  they  are  white." 

From  all  sides  now  came  evidences  of  the  most 
cordial  recognition.  The  reviews  and  weeklies 
published  anecdotes  about  him  and  extracts  from 
his  works.  Indeed,  it  was  evident  that  the  Iron 
Mask  had  escaped,  and  that  to  Caspar  Hauser 
light  and  air  had  at  last  been  accorded.  Think- 
ers, scholars,  and  philosophers,  of  all  creeds  and 
colors,  became  his  attentive  readers.  Decora- 
tions were  offered  to  him,  which  he  unostenta- 
tiously refused.  The  Berlin  Academy,  within 
whose  walls  Hegel  had  reigned  supreme,  invited 
him  to  become  one  of  its  faculty.  This  honor 
he  also  declined.  "  They  have  turned  their  back 
on  me  all  my  life,"  he  said,  "  and  after  my  death 
they  want  my  name  to  adorn  their  catalogues." 
1  Briefe  iiber  die  Schopenhauer1  sche  Philosophic, 


The  High  Priest  of  Pessimism.       67 

His  philosophy  was  lectured  upon  at  Breslau,  and 
the  University  of  Leipsic  offered  it  as  a  subject 
for  a  prize  essay.  All  this  was  very  pleasant. 
Much  to  his  indignation,  however,  for  he  was  by 
nature  greatly  disinclined  to  serve  as  pastime  to 
an  idle  public,  the  "  Illustrirte  Zeitung"  pub- 
lished his  likeness,  and  added  insult  to  injury  by 
printing  his  name  with  two  p's.  Ah !  how  truly 
has  it  been  said  that  fame  consists  in  seeing 
one's  name  spelt  wrong  in  the  newspapers  ! 

One  of  the  most  flattering  manifestations  of 
this  sudden  vogue  was  the  curiosity  of  the  pub- 
lic, the  number  of  enthusiasts  that  visited  him, 
and  the  eagerness  with  which  artists  sought  to 
preserve  his  features  for  posterity.  To  all  this 
concert  of  praise  it  is  difficult  to  say  that  Scho- 
penhauer lent  a  rebellious  ear.  The  success  of 
his  philosophy  of  disenchantment  enchanted  him. 
He  accepted  with  the  seriousness  of  childhood 
the  bouquets  and  sonnets  which  rained  in  upon 
him  on  his  subsequent  birthdays,  and  in  his  let- 
ters to  Frauenstadt  alluded  to  his  ascending  glory 
with  innocent  and  amusing  satisfaction  :  — 

FRANKFORT,  September  23,  1854. 
...  A  fortnight  ago,  a  Dr.  K.,  a  teacher,  came 
to  see  me ;  he  entered  the  room  and  looked  so 
fixedly  at  me  that  I  began  to  be  frightened,  and 
then  he  cried  out,  "  I  must  look  at  you,  I  will 
look  at  you,  I  came  to  look  at  you."  He  was 
most  enthusiastic.  My  philosophy,  he  told  me, 
restored  him  to  life.  What  next  ?  . 


68     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

June  29,  1855. 

.  .  .  B.  called  to-day;  he  had  been  here  for 
twenty-four  hours  under  an  assumed  name,  and 
after  many  hesitations  came  in  a  closed  carriage 
to  pay  his  respects.  .  .  .  On  taking  leave,  he 
kissed  my  hand.  I  screamed  with  fright.  .  .  . 

August  17,  1855. 

.  .  .  My  portrait,  painted  by  Lunteschiitz,  is 
finished  and  sold.  Wiesike  saw  it  in  time,  and 
bought  it  while  it  was  still  on  the  easel.  But  the 
unheard-of  part  of  the  whole  matter  is  that  he 
told  me,  and  Lunteschutz  too,  that  he  was  going 
to  build  a  temple  on  purpose  for  it.  That  will 
be  the  first  chapel  erected  in  my  honor.  Recita- 
tivo,  "Ja,  ja,  Sarastro  herrschet  hier."1  What 
will  be  said  of  me,  I  wonder,  in  the  year  2100? .  .  . 

September,  1855. 

.  .  .  Received  a  number  of  visits.  Baehr,  the 
Dresden  painter  and  professor,  came  ;  he  is  a 
charming  fellow,  and  pleased  me  very  much.  He 
knows  all  my  works,  and  is  full  of  them.  He 
says,  at  Dresden  every  one  is  interested  in  them, 
especially  the  women,  who,  it  appears,  read  me 
with  passionate  delight.  Hornstein,  a  young 
composer,  came  also ;  he  is  a  pupil  of  Richard 
Wagner,  who,  it  seems,  is  also  one  of  my  stu- 
dents. Hornstein  is  still  here,  and  pays  me  an 
exaggerated  respect;  for  instance,  when  I  want 

1  "  Yes,  yes,  Sarastro  reigns  herein."  —  Air  from  the 
Magic  Flute. 


The  High  Priest  of  Pessimism.       69 

my  waiter,  he  rises  from  table  to  summon  him. 
.  .  .  My  portrait  has  been  for  a  fortnight  at  the 
exposition.  There  has  been  a  great  crowd  to  see 
it.  Von  Launitz,  the  Frankfort  Phidias,  wants  to 
take  my  bust.  .  .  . 

December  23,  1855. 

...  A  gentleman  has  written  to  me  from  Zu- 
rich to  say  that  in  the  club  to  which  he  belongs 
my  works  are  read  with  such  admiration  that  the 
members  are  crazy  to  get  a  picture  of  me  of  any 
kind,  nature,  or  description,  and  that  the  artist 
who  takes  it  has  but  to  forward  it  C.  O.  D.  .  .  . 
You  see  that  my  fame  is  spreading  like  a  confla- 
gration, and  not  in  arithmetical  ratio  either,  but 
in  geometric,  and  even  cubic.  .  .  . 

March  28,  1856. 

...  R.,  too,  kissed  my  hand,  —  a  ceremony 
to  which  I  cannot  accustom  myself  ;  yet  it  is  one, 
I  suppose,  that  forms  part  of  my  imperial  dig- 
nity. .  .  . 

June  6,  1856. 

.  .  .  Becher  sent  his  son  and  nephew  here, 
and  Baehr  sent  his  son  also,  and  that  only  that 
these  young  people  may  in  their  old  age  be  able 
to  boast  that  they  had  seen  and  spoken  to  me.  .  .  . 

June  II,  1856. 

.  .  .  Professor  Baehr,  of  Dresden,  was  here 
yesterday,  and,  penetrated  with  the  most  praise- 
worthy enthusiasm,  wished  to  exchange  his  beau- 
tiful silver  snuff-box  for  my  forlorn  old  leather 


7O     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

one.  I  refused,  however.  He  told  me  of  a  cer- 
tain Herr  von  Wilde,  who  was  a  perfect  fanatic 
on  the  subject  of  my  philosophy,  and  who,  at  the 
age  of  eighty-five,  died  with  my  name  on  his  lips. 
My  Buddha,  re-gilded,  glittering  on  his  pedes- 
tal, gives  you  his  benediction. 

August  14,  1856. 

.  .  .  Four  pages  and  a  half  of  Tallendier 
about  me.1  You  have  seen  it,  I  suppose.  French 
chatter,  personal  details,  etc.,  but  where  the  devil 
did  he  hear  that  I  am  "  tout  etonne  du  bruit  que 
font  mes  ecrits  dans  le  monde  ? "  I  am  so  little 
astonished,  that  Emden  told  Nordwall,  to  the  lat- 
ter's  intense  surprise,  that  I  had  predicted  to  him 
my  future  celebrity  fully  twenty  years  ago.  .  .  . 

Now,  mediocrity  may,  of  course,  be  praised, 
but,  as  Balzac  has  put  it,  it  is  never  discussed. 
And  Schopenhauer,  in  the  matter  of  discussion, 
came  in  for  his  full  share.  He  was  praised  and 
abused  by  turn.  Like  every  prominent  figure,  he 
made  a  good  mark  to  fire  at.  Certain  critics  said 
that  he  had  stolen  from  Fichte  and  Schelling 
everything  in  his  philosophy  that  was  worth  read- 
ing, others  abused  him  personally ;  and  one 
writer,  a  woman  with  whom  he  had  refused  to 
converse,  and  who  had  probably  expected  to  pay 
her  hotel  bill  with  the  protocol  of  his  conversa- 
tion, wrote  a  quantity  of  scurrilous  articles  about 
him.  But  ccnsura  perit,  script 'urn  manet.  The 
1  An  article  in  the  Revue  dcs  Deux  Mondes. 


The  High  Priest  of  Pessimism.       JI 

criticisms  are  forgotten,  while  his  work  still  en- 
dures and,  moreover,  grows  each  year  into  surer 
and  stronger  significance. 

Among  his  visitors  at  the  time  was  M.  Foucher 
de  Carsil,  and  the  portrait  which  that  gentleman 
subsequently  drew  of  him  is  so  graphic  that  it  is 
impossible  to  resist  the  temptation  of  making  the 
following  extract : l  — 

"  When  I  first  saw  him,  in  1859,  at  the  Hotel 
d'Angleterre,  at  Frankfort,  he  was  then  an  old 
man,  with  bright  blue  and  limpid  eyes.  His  lips 
were  thin  and  sarcastic,  and  about  them  wan- 
dered a  smile  of  shrewd  intelligence.  His  high 
forehead  was  tufted  on  either  side  with  puffs  of 
white  hair  that  gave  to  his  physiognomy,  lumi- 
nous as  it  was  with  wit  and  malice,  a  stamp  of 
nobility  and  distinction.  His  garments,  his  lace 
jabot,  his  white  cravat,  reminded  me  of  that 
school  of  gentlemen  who  lived  toward  the  close 
of  the  reign  of  Louis  XV.  His  manners  were 
those  of  a  man  accustomed  to  the  best  society ; 
habitually  reserved  and  timid  even  to  suspicion, 
he  rarely  entered  into  conversation  with  any  save 
his  intimates  and  an  occasional  sympathetic  trav- 
eler. His  gestures  were  abrupt,  and  in  conver- 
sation they  became  at  once  petulant  and  sugges- 
tive. He  avoided  discussions  and  combats  in 
words,  but  he  did  so  that  he  might  the  better 
enjoy  the  charm  of  familiar  conversation.  When 
he  did  speak,  his  imagination  embroidered  on  the 
heavy  canvas  of  the  German  tongue  the  most 
1  Hegel  et  Schopenhauer.  Paris  :  Hachette  et  Cie. 


72     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

subtle  and  delicate  arabesques  that  the  Latin, 
Greek,  French,  English,  or  Italian  languages  were 
capable  of  suggesting.  Indeed,  when  he  cared 
to  talk,  his  conversation  possessed  swing  and 
precision,  and  joined  thereto  was  a  wealth  of  ci- 
tation, an  exactitude  of  detail,  and  such  tireless 
flow  of  wit,  as  held  the  little  circle  of  his  friends 
charmed  and  attentive  until  far  into  the  night. 
His  words,  clear-cut  and  cadenced,  captivated  his 
listener  wholly :  they  both  pictured  and  analyzed, 
a  tremulous  sensitiveness  heightened  their  fervor, 
they  were  precise  and  exact  on  every  topic.  A 
German,  who  had  traveled  extensively  in  Abys- 
sinia, was  so  astonished  at  the  minute  details 
which  he  gave  on  the  different  species  of  croco- 
diles, and  their  customs,  that  he  thought  that  in 
him  he  recognized  a  former  companion. 

"  Happy  are  they  who  heard  this  last  survivor 
of  the  conversationalists  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury !  He  was  a  contemporary  of  Voltaire  and 
of  Diderot,  of  Helvetius  and  of  Chamfort ;  his 
brilliant  thoughts  on  women,  on  the  part  that 
mothers  hold  in  the  intellectual  qualities  of  their 
children  ;  his  theories,  profoundly  original,  on  the 
connection  between  will  and  mind ;  his  views  on 
art  and  nature,  on  the  life  and  death  of  the  spe- 
cies ;  his  remarks  on  the  dull  and  wearisome 
style  of  those  who  write  to  say  nothing,  or  who 
put  on  a  mask  and  think  with  the  thoughts  of 
others  ;  his  pungent  reflections  on  the  subject  of 
pseudonyms,  and  on  the  establishment  of  a  lite- 
rary censure  for  those  journals  which  permitted 


The  High  Priest  of  Pessimism.        73 

neologisms,  solecisms,  and  barbarisms ;  his  in- 
genious hypotheses  on  magnetic  phenomena, 
dreams,  and  somnambulism  ;  his  hatred  of  ex- 
cess of  every  kind  ;  his  love  of  order ;  and  his 
horror  of  obscurantism,  '  qui,  s'il  n'est  pas  un 
pe'che'  contre  le  Saint- Esprit  en  est  un  centre 
1'esprit  humain,'  make  for  him  a  physiognomy  en- 
tirely different  from  any  other  of  this  century." 

A  few  tags  and  tatters  of  these  conversations 
have  been  preserved  by  Dr.  Frauenstadt,1  and  in 
them  Schopenhauer  is  discovered  sprawled  at 
ease,  and  expressing  himself  on  a  variety  of  top- 
ics with  a  disinvoltura  and  freedom  of  epithet 
which  recalls  the  earlier  essayists.  With  them, 
as  with  him,  periphrasis  was  avoided.  Spades 
were  spades,  not  horticultural  implements ;  and 
in  one  dialogue  Frauenstadt  compliments  his 
master  in  having,  in  breadth  and  reach  of  his  po- 
lemic, nothing  in  common  with  contemporary  re- 
gard for  ears  polite.  Citations  of  this  class,  how- 
ever, may  well  be  omitted.  A  thinker  in  slippers, 
and  especially  in  puris  naturalibus,  is  generally 
unattractive  even  to  those  the  least  given  to  pru- 
dishness.  But  beyond  certain  instances  of  this 
description,  the  scholar  and  man  of  the  world  is 
usually  very  discernible.  At  times  he  is  pro- 
found, at  others  vivacious ;  for  instance,  he  is 
asked  what  man  would  be  if  Nature,  in  making 
the  last  step  which  leads  to  him,  had  started  from 
the  dog  or  the  elephant ;  to  which  he  answers,  in 
that  case  man  would  be  an  intelligent  dog  or  an 
1  Arthur  Schopenhauer.  Von  ihm,  Ueber  ihn.  Berlin. 


74     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

intelligent  elephant,  instead  of  being  an  intelli- 
gent monkey.  As  may  be  imagined,  there  was 
about  Schopenhauer  very  little  of  the  Sunday- 
school  theologian,  and  religion  was  in  conse- 
quence seldom  viewed  by  him  from  an  orthodox 
standpoint ;  when,  therefore,  Schleiermacher  was 
quoted  before  him  to  the  effect  that  no  man  can 
be  a  philosopher  who  is  not  religious,  he  observed 
very  quietly,  "  No  man  who  is  religious  can  be- 
come a  philosopher,  —  metaphysics  are  useless 
to  him,  and  no  true  philosopher  is  religious  ;  he 
is  sometimes  in  danger,  but  he  is  not  fettered,  he 
is  free."  Elsewhere  he  said,  "  Religion  and  phi- 
losophy are  like  the  two  scales  of  a  balance ;  the 
more  one  rises,  the  more  does  the  other  descend." 
In  Schopenhauer's  opinion,  the  greatest  novels 
were  "Tristram  Shandy,"  "  Wilhelm  Meister," 
"Don  Quixote,"  and  the  "Nouvelle  He'loi'se." 
To  "  Don  Quixote "  he  ascribed  an  allegorical 
meaning,  but  as  an  intellectual  romance  he  pre- 
ferred "Wilhelm  Meister"  to  all  others.  He 
believed  in  clairvoyance,  but  not  that  man  is  a 
free  agent ;  and  it  may  be  here  noted  that,  ac- 
cording to  the  most  recent  scientific  opinion,  man 
is  a  free  agent,  at  most,  about  once  in  twenty-four 
hours.  "  Everything  that  happens,  happens  nec- 
essarily," he  would  say  ;  and  it  was  with  this 
maxim,  of  whose  truth  he  had  a  variety  of  every- 
day examples,  and  with  the  aid  of  the  theory  of 
the  ideality  of  time,  that  he  explained  second 
sight.  "  Everything  is  now  that  is  to  be,"  he 
said ;  "  but  with  our  ordinary  eyes  we  do  not  see 


The  High  Priest  of  Pessimism.       75 

it ;  the  clairvoyant  merely  puts  on  the  spectacles 
of  Time." 

In  the  "Paranesen  und  Maximen,"  in  which 
Schopenhauer  chats  quietly  with  the  reader  and 
not  with  the  disciple,  many  quaint  and  forcible 
suggestions  are  to  be  found.  For  instance,  among 
other  things,  he  says,  "  I  accord  my  entire  re- 
spect to  any  man  who,  when  unoccupied,  and 
waiting  for  something,  does  not  immediately  begin 
to  beat  a  tattoo  with  his  fingers,  or  toy  with  the 
object  nearest  his  hand.  It  is  probable  that  such 
a  man  has  thoughts  of  his  own."  His  advice, 
too,  on  the  manner  in  which  we  should  think  and 
work  is  quite  Emersonian  in  its  directness.  It 
was,  it  may  be  added,  the  manner  in  which  he 
thought  and  worked,  himself :  "  Have  compart- 
ments for  your  thoughts  and  open  but  one  of 
them  at  a  time ;  in  this  way  each  little  pleasure 
you  may  have  will  not  be  spoiled  by  some  lum- 
bering care ;  neither  will  one  thought  drive  out 
another,  and  an  important  matter  will  not  swamp 
a  lot  of  smaller  ones." 

Such,  vaguely  outlined,  was  this  great  and  in- 
teresting figure.  With  the  appearance  of  the 
"  Parerga "  his  work  was  done.  He  lived  ten 
years  longer  in  great  seclusion,  receiving  only  in- 
frequent visits.  "  There,  where  two  or  three  are 
gathered  together,"  he  would  say,  and  suggested 
that  his  friends  and  believers  should  meet  and 
consult  without  him.  Such  literary  labor  as  he 
then  performed  consisted  mainly  in  strengthen- 
ing that  which  he  had  already  written,  and  in 


76      The  Philosophy  of  DisencJiantment. 

making  notes  and  suggestions  for  future  editions. 
At  the  age  of  seventy-two  he  died,  very  peace- 
fully though  suddenly,  leaving  all  his  fortune  to 
charitable  purposes. 

In  these  pages  no  attempt  has  been  made  to 
enter  into  the  details  of  biography,  for  that  pleas- 
ant task  has  been  already  well  performed  by 
other  and  better  equipped  pens.  The  present 
writer  has  therefore  only  sought  to  present  such 
a  view  of  Schopenhauer  as  might  aid  the  general 
reader  to  a  clearer  understanding  of  the  doctrine 
which  he  was  the  first  to  present,  and  which  will 
be  briefly  considered  in  the  next  chapter. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE   SPHINX'S   RIDDLE. 

IN  the  Munich  beer  halls,  when  one  student 
is  heard  laying  down  the  law  about  something 
which  he  does  not  understand  to  a  companion 
who  cares  not  a  rap  on  the  subject,  it  is  very 
generally  taken  for  granted  that  the  two  are  talk- 
ing metaphysics.  Indeed,  metaphysics  has  a  bad 
name  everywhere.  In  itself,  it  suggests  nothing 
very  enticing,  and  even  its  nomenclature  seems  to 
bring  with  it  a  sort  of  ponderosity  which  is  very 
nearly  akin  to  the  repulsive. 

This  prejudice,  of  course,  is  not  without  its 
reason.  The  philosophers,  nearly  one  and  all, 
seem  to  have  banded  themselves  into  a  sort  of 
imaginary  freemasonry,  whose  portals  they  bar  to 
any  one  refusing  to  robe  his  thoughts  in  a  gar- 
ment of  technical  speech.  Moreover,  at  the  very 
gateway  of  their  guild  there  looms  before  the 
timorous  the  fear  of  a  hideous  initiation,  the  cold 
douche  of  logic,  and  the  memorizing  of  hateful 
terms.  There  can  therefore  be  no  stronger  proof 
of  Schopenhauer's  ability  than  that  which  is  con- 
tained in  the  fact  that  he  successfully  eluded  all 
these  stale  abuses,  and  turned  one  of  the  heav- 


78      The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

iest  kinds  of  writing  into  one  of  the  most  agree- 
able. 

Indeed,  Schopenhauer  is  not  only  one  of  the 
most  profound  thinkers  of  the  essentially  pro- 
found nineteenth  century,  but,  what  is  still  more 
noteworthy,  he  is  an  exceptionably  fascinating 
teacher.  His  spacious  theories  and  tangential 
flights  are,  of  course,  not  such  as  charm  the 
reader  of  the  penny  dreadful ;  but  any  one  who 
is  interested  in  the  drama  of  evolution  and  the 
tragi-comedy  of  life  will,  it  is  believed,  find  in 
him  a  fund  of  curious  information,  such  as  no 
other  thinker  has  had  the  power  to  convey. 

He  has,  it  is  true,  made  the  most  of  the  worst ; 
but  beyond  this  reproach,  but  one  other  of  seri- 
ous import  remains  to  be  brought  against  him, 
and  that  is  that  though  he  has  been  dead  and 
buried  for  very  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century,  he 
is  still  on  the  outer  margin  of  his  epoch.  For 
this  he  is  not,  of  course,  entirely  to  blame.  There 
are  among  thinkers  many  pleasant  optimists  still, 
who  form  a  respectable  majority  ;  to  be  sure,  a 
wise  man  once  said  that  in  considering  a  new 
subject  the  minority  were  always  right ;  but,  dis- 
regarding for  the  moment  the  fallacy  of  believing 
that  this  world  is  the  best  one  possible,  it  cannot 
but  be  admitted  that  scientific  pessimism  is  still 
in  its  infancy.  It  has  yet  many  prejudices  to  dis- 
arm, and  many  errors  of  its  own  to  correct.  Like 
meaner  things,  it  must  mature.  For  this  it  has 
ample  time. 

Berkeley  says  that  few  men  think,  yet  all  have 


The  Sphinx's  Riddle.  79 

opinions  ;  and  it  is  now  very  frequently  asserted 
that  when  more  is  thought,  not  only  there  will  not 
be  such  a  diversity  of  opinion,  but  at  that  time 
Pessimism,  as  the  religion  of  the  future,  will 
begin  its  sway. 

It  has  been  elsewhere  noted  that  the  effect  of 
Kant's  philosophy  was  not  dissimilar  to  that  of  a 
successful  operation  on  cataract,  and  the  aim  of 
the  "World  as  Will  and  Idea"  is  to  place  in  the 
hands  of  those  on  whom  that  operation  has  been 
satisfactorily  performed  a  pair  of  such  spectacles 
as  are  suitable  to  convalescent  eyes.  Schopen- 
hauer is  therefore  in  a  measure  indebted  to  Kant, 
as  also,  it  may  be  added,  to  Plato,  and  the  sacred 
books  of  the  Hindus. 

In  saying,  however,  that  Schopenhauer  is  in- 
debted to  Kant,  it  is  well  to  point  out  that  Scho- 
penhauer begins  precisely  where  Kant  left  off. 
Kant's  great  merit  consisted  in  distinguishing  the 
phenomenon  from  the  thing-in-itself,  or  in  other 
words,  in  showing  the  difference  between  that 
which  seems  and  that  which  is.1  For  the  inac- 
cessible thing-in-itself  he  had  no  explanation  to 
offer.  He  called  it  the  Ding  an  sic/i,  regarded 
it  as  the  result  of  an  unintelligible  cause,  and 

1  This  distinction  of  Kant's  is  not  strictly  original.  Its 
germ  is  in  Plato,  and  Voltaire  set  all  Europe  laughing  at 
Maupertuis,  who  had  vaguely  stated  that  "  nous  vivons 
dans  un  monde  ou  rien  de  ce  que  nous  apercevons  ne  res- 
semble  a  ce  que  nous  apercevons."  Whether  Kant  was  ac- 
quainted or  not  with  Maupertuis'  theory  is,  of  course,  diffi- 
cult to  say ;  at  any  rate,  he  resurrected  the  doctrine,  and 
presented  idealism  for  the  first  time  in  a  logical  form. 


8o     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

then  left  it  to  be  a  bugbear  to  every  student  of 
his  philosophy. 

This  unpleasant  Ding  an  sich  was  exorcised, 
and  well-nigh  banished  for  good  and  all,  by 
Fichte  and  Hegel ;  but  Schopenhauer  reestab- 
lished the  incomprehensible  factor  on  a  fresh 
basis,  christened  it  "  Will,"  and  asserted  it  to  be 
the  creator  of  all  that  is,  and  at  once  indepen- 
dent, free,  and  omnipotent;  in  other  words,  the 
interior  essence  of  the  world  of  which  Christ  cru- 
cified is  the  sublime  symbol.  Thus  disposed  of, 
the  Ding  an  sich  may  now  be  left  to  take  care 
of  itself,  and  the  examination  of  the  great  theory 
begun. 

Schopenhauer  opens  his  philosophy  with  the 
formula,  "  The  world  is  my  idea ; "  a  formula 
which,  it  may  be  noted,  condenses  in  the  fewest 
possible  words  all  that  is  worth  condensing  of  the 
idealism  of  Germany.  Beginning  in  this  manner 
it  is  evident  that  he  proposes  to  show  neither 
whence  the  world  comes  nor  whither  it  tends,  nor 
yet  why  it  is,  but  simply,  what  it  is.  The  ques- 
tion has  been  asked  before.  According  to  Scho- 
penhauer, the  world  is  made  up  of  two  zones, 
the  real  and  the  ideal ;  and  it  may  here  be  said 
that  over  the  real  and  the  ideal  Schopenhauer 
successfully  read  the  banns. 

To  return,  however,  to  the  opening  formula. 
"  The  world  is  my  idea  "  is  a  truth  which  holds 
good  for  everything  that  lives  and  thinks,  but 
which,  however,  is  appreciable  only  by  man. 
When  appreciated,  it  is  at  once  clear  that  what 


The  Sphinx  s  Riddle.  81 

we  know  is  neither  a  sun  nor  an  earth,  for  we 
have  at  best  an  eye  which  sees  the  one,  and  a 
hand  which  feels  the  other.  In  brief,  we  are  un- 
acquainted with  either  forms  or  colors ;  we  have 
but  senses  which  represent  them  to  us,  while  ob- 
jects exist  for  us  merely  through  the  medium  of 
the  intelligence.  Indeed,  as  Schopenhauer  has 
said,  no  other  truth  is  more  certain  and  less  in 
need  of  proof  than  this,  —  that  the  whole  world  is 
simply  the  perception  of  a  perceiver  ;  in  a  word, 
idea. 

Emerson  says  that  the  frivolous  make  them- 
selves merry  with  this  theory ;  and  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted that  at  first  it  does  not  seem  quite  satis- 
factory to  be  told  that  the  world  in  which  we  live 
is  nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  cerebral  phenom- 
enon, which  man  carries  with  him  to  the  tomb, 
and  which,  in  the  absence  of  a  perceiver,  would 
not  exist  at  all.  To  arrive,  however,  at  a  clear 
understanding  of  the  purely  phenomenal  exist- 
ence of  the  exterior  world,  it  will  suffice  to  rep- 
resent to  one's  self  the  world  as  it  was  when 
entirely  uninhabited.  At  that  time  it  was  neces- 
sarily without  perception.  Later,  there  sprang  up 
a  great  quantity  of  plants,  upon  which  the  differ- 
ent forces  of  light,  air,  humidity,  and  electricity 
acted  according  to  their  nature.  If,  now,  it  be  re- 
membered how  impressionable  plants  are  to  these 
agents,  and  how  thought  leads  by  degrees  to  sen- 
sation and  thence  to  perception,  immediately  then 
the  world  appears  representing  itself  in  time  and- 
space.  Or,  reverse  the  argument  and  imagine 
6 


82     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

that  the  dream  of  the  poet  is  realized,  that  nations 
have  disappeared,  and  that  every  living  thing  has 
ceased  to  be,  while  beneath  the  sun's  unchang- 
ing stare,  and  enveloped  in  the  sky's  bland,  per- 
vasive blue,  the  earth  with  her  continents  and 
archipelagoes  continues  to  revolve  in  space.  Un- 
der such  circumstances  it  would  naturally  seem 
as  though  the  universe  subsisted  still.  But  if  the 
question  is  examined  more  closely,  it  will  per- 
haps be  admitted  that  these  things  remain  as 
they  are  only  on  condition  of  being  seen  and  felt. 
For  supposing  one  spectator  present,  but  of  a 
different  mental  organization  from  our  own,  then 
the  entire  scene  is  changed  ;  suppress  him,  and 
the  whole  spectacle  tumbles  into  chaos. 

This  doctrine,  as  it  will  be  readily  understood, 
does  not  in  any  sense  deny  the  reality  of  the 
world  in  the  ordinary  acceptation  of  the  term ;  it 
maintains  merely  that  every  object  is  conditioned 
by  its  subject ;  or,  to  explain  the  theory  less  tech- 
nically, it  will  be  sufficient  to  reflect  that  for  the 
world,  or  for  anything  else,  to  be  an  object,  there 
must  be  some  one  as  subject  to  think  it ;  for  in- 
stance, the  dreamless  sleep  proves  that  the  earth 
exists  only  to  the  thinking  mind,  and  should  all 
Nature  be  rocked  in  an  eternal  slumber,  there 
could  then  be  no  question  of  an  exterior  world. 

If  it  be  asked  in  what  this  perception  con- 
sists, which  represents  the  exterior  world,  we  find 
that  it  is  limited  to  three  fundamental  concepts, 
that  of  time,  space,  and  their  concomitant  causal- 
ity ;  but  inasmuch  as  time  and  space  are  the  re- 


The  Sphinx  s  Riddle.  83 

ceptacle  of  every  phenomenon,  once  their  ideality 
is  established,  the  ideality  of  the  world  is  proven 
at  the  same  moment,  and  with  it  the  truth  of  the 
formula,  "  The  world  is  my  idea." 

Now  the  ideality  of  time  is  established,  accord- 
ing to  Schopenhauer,  by  what  is  known  in  me- 
chanics as  the  law  of  inertia.  "  For  what,"  he 
asks  in  the  "  Parerga,"  "  does  this  law  teach  ? 
Simply,  that  time  alone  cannot  produce  any  phys- 
ical action,  that  alone  and  in  itself  it  alters  noth- 
ing either  in  the  repose  or  movement  of  a  body. 
Were  it  either  accidentally  or  otherwise  inher- 
ent in  things  themselves,  it  would  follow  that  its 
duration  or  brevity  would  affect  them  in  a  certain 
measure.  But  it  does  nothing  of  the  sort ;  time 
passes  over  all  things  without  leaving  the  slight- 
est trace,  for  they  are  acted  upon  only  by  the 
causes  that  unroll  themselves  in  time,  but  in  no 
sense  by  time  itself.  When,  therefore,  a  body  is 
withdrawn  from  chemical  action,  as  the  mam- 
moth in  the  ice  fields,  the  fly  in  amber,  and  the 
Egyptian  antiquities  in  their  closed  necropoli, 
thousands  of  years  may  pass  and  leave  them  un- 
affected. Indeed,"  he  adds  elsewhere,  "the  liv- 
ing toads  found  in  limestone  lead  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  even  animal  life  may  be  suspended  for 
thousands  of  years,  provided  this  suspension  is 
begun  in  the  dormant  period  and  maintained  by 
special  circumstances." 

The  "London  Times,"  2ist  September,  1840, 
contains  a  notice  to  the  effect  that,  at  a  lecture 
delivered  by  Mr.  Pettigrew,  at  the  Literary  and 


84     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

Scientific  Institute,  the  lecturer  showed  some 
grains  of  wheat  which  Sir  G.  Wilkenson  had 
found  in  a  grave  at  Thebes,  where  they  must 
have  lain  for  three  thousand  years.  They  were 
found  in  an  hermetically  sealed  vase.  Mr.  Petti- 
grew  had  sowed  twelve  grains,  and  obtained  a 
plant  which  grew  five  feet  high,  and  the  seeds  of 
which  were  then  quite  ripe. 

Many  other  instances  are  given  of  this  abso- 
lute inactivity ;  for  example,  let  a  body  once  be 
put  in  motion,  that  motion  is  never  arrested  or 
diminished  by  any  lapse  of  time  ;  it  would  be 
never  ending  were  it  not  for  the  reaction  of  phys- 
ical causes.  In  the  same  manner  a  body  in  re- 
pose would  remain  so  eternally  did  not  physical 
causes  put  it  in  motion.  It  follows,  therefore, 
that  time  is  not  a  real  existence,  but  only  a  con- 
dition of  thought,  or  purely  ideal. 

In  regard  to  the  ideality  of  space,  Schopen- 
hauer says,  "  The  clearest  and  most  simple  proof 
of  the  ideality  of  space  is  that  we  can  never  get 
it  out  of  our  thoughts,  as  we  might  anything  else. 
We  can  fancy  space  as  having  no  longer  any- 
thing to  fill  it,  we  can  imagine  that  everything 
within  it  has  disappeared,  we  can  represent  it  as 
being,  between  the  fixed  stars,  an  absolute  void, 
but  space  itself  we  can  never  get  rid  of ;  whatever 
we  do,  however  we  turn,  there  it  is  in  endless  ex- 
pansion. This  fact  certainly  proves  that  space 
is  a  part  of  our  intellect ;  or,  in  other  words,  that 
it  is  the  woof  of  the  tissue  upon  which  the  dif- 
ferent objects  of  the  exterior  world  apply  them- 


The  Sphinx  s  Riddle.  85 

selves.  As  soon  as  I  think  of  an  object,  space 
appears  with  it  and  accompanies  every  move- 
ment, every  turn  and  detour  of  my  thought,  as 
faithfully  as  the  spectacles  on  my  nose  accom- 
pany ever}7  movement,  every  turn  and  detour  of 
my  person,  or  just  in  the  same  manner  as  the 
shadow  accompanies  the  body.  If  I  notice  that 
a  thing  accompanies  me  everywhere,  and  under 
all  circumstances,  I  naturally  conclude  that  it  is 
in  some  way  connected  with  me ;  as  if,  for  in- 
stance, wherever  I  went  I  noticed  a  particular 
odor  from  which  I  could  not  escape.  Space,  is 
precisely  the  same  ;  whatever  I  think  of,  what 
ever  I  imagine,  space  comes  first  and  yields  its 
place  to  nothing.  It  must,  therefore,  be  an  in- 
tegral part  of  my  understanding,  and  its  ideality 
in  consequence  must  extend  to  everything  that  is 
thinkable." 

Space  and  time  being  but  the  empty  frame- 
work of  phenomenal  existence,  something  must 
fill  them,  and  that  something  is  causality,  which, 
according  to  Schopenhauer,  is  synonymous  with 
action  and  matter.  Into  these  abstract  regions, 
however,  it  is  unnecessary  to  follow  him  any  fur- 
ther. Suffice  it  to  say  that  having  shown  in  this 
way  that  one  of  the  two  zones  of  which  the  world 
is  formed  is  but  an  effect  of  the  perceptions,  he 
passes  therefrom  to  the  world  as  it  is. 

Now  there  were  many  paths  which  might  or 
might  not  have  led  him  to  the  unravelment  of 
the  great  secret  which  Kant  gave  up  in  despair, 
there  were  many  ways  which  seemed  to  tend  to 


86     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

a  direct  solution  of  the  Sphinx's  riddle,  but  the 
course  which  he  chose,  and  which  brought  him 
nearer  to  the  proper  answer  than  any  other  sys- 
tem of  which  the  world  yet  knows,  may  be  fairly 
said  to  have  been  inspired  by  the  spirit  of  truth, 
and  as  an  inspiration  given  first  to  him  of  all 
men. 

It  was  not  mathematics  that  he  selected  to  aid 
him  in  his  search  for  the  real,  for  whatever  the 
subtleties  of  that  science  may  be,  it  is  still  too 
superficial  to  contain  an  explorable  depth.  The 
natural  sciences  could  aid  him  as  little.  Anat- 
omy, botany,  and  zoology  reveal,  it  is  true,  an  in- 
finite variety  of  forms,  but  these  forms  at  best 
are  but  unrelated  perceptions,  a  series  of  inde- 
cipherable hieroglyphics.  Even  etiology,  when 
embracing  the  whole  range  of  physical  science, 
gives  at  most  but  the  nomenclature,  succession, 
and  changes  of  inexplicable  forces,  without  re- 
vealing anything  of  their  inner  nature.  All  these 
methods  were  smitten  with  the  same  defect,  — 
they  were  all  external,  and  offered  not  the  essence 
of  things,  but  only  their  image  and  description. 
To  employ  them,  therefore,  in  a  search  for  truth 
would,  he  said,  be  on  a  par  with  a  man  who, 
wandering  about  a  castle  looking  vainly  for  the 
entrance,  takes  meanwhile  a  sketch  of  the  fagade. 
Such,  however,  he  noted,  is  the  method  which 
all  other  philosophers  have  followed.  He  con- 
cluded, therefore,  as  man  was  not  only  a  think- 
ing being,  to  whom  the  world  was  merely  an  idea, 
but  an  individual  riveted  to  the  earth  by  a  body 


The  Sphinx's  Riddle.  87 

whose  affections  were  the  starting-point  of  his  in- 
tuitions, that  reality  would  come  to  him,  not  from 
without,  but  from  within.  "  For  this  body  of  man's 
is,"  he  argued,  "  but  an  object  among  other  ob- 
jects ;  its  movements  and  actions  are  unknown  to 
the  thinking  being  save  as  are  the  changes  of  the 
others,  and  they  would  be  as  incomprehensible 
to  him  as  his  own  were  not  their  signification 
revealed  to  him  in  another  manner.  He  would 
see  movements  follow  motives  with  the  constancy 
of  a  natural  law,  and  would  as  little  understand 
the  influence  of  the  motive  as  the  connection  of 
any  other  effect  with  its  cause.  He  could,  if  he 
chose,  call  it  force,  quality,  or  character,  but  that 
is  all  that  he  would  know  about  it." 

What,  then,  is  the  interior  essence  of  every 
manifestation  and  of  every  action  ?  What  is  that 
which  is  identical  with  the  body  to  such  an  ex- 
tent that  to  its  command  a  movement  always  an- 
swers ?  What  is  that  with  which  Nature  plays, 
which  works  dumbly  in  the  rock,  slumbers  in  the 
plant,  and  awakes  in  man?  Schopenhauer  an- 
swers with  a  word,  "  Will."  Will,  he  teaches,  is 
a  force,  and  should  not  be  taken,  as  it  is  ordi- 
narily, to  mean  simply  the  conscious  act  of  an  in- 
telligent being.  In  Nature  it  is  a  blind,  uncon- 
scious power ;  in  man  it  is  the  foundation  of 
being. 

But  before  entering  into  an  examination  of  the 
functions  and  vagaries  of  this  force,  of  which 
everything,  from  a  cataclysm  to  a  blade  of  grass, 
is  a  derivative,  it  is  well  to  inquire  what  its  exact 


88     The  Philosopliy  of  Disenchantment. 

rank  is.  It  has  been  already  said  that  in  man  it 
was  the  foundation  of  being,  but  from  very  early 
times,  —  as  a  matter  of  fact,  since  the  days  in 
which  Anaxagoras  lived  and  taught,  —  the  intel- 
lect has  held,  among  all  man's  other  attributes,  a 
sceptre  hitherto  uncontested.  If  Schopenhauer, 
however,  is  to  be  believed,  the  supremacy  hitherto 
accorded  to  it  has  been  the  result  of  error.  The 
throne,  by  grace  divine,  belongs  to  Will.  The 
intellect  is  but  the  prime  minister,  the  instrument 
of  a  higher  force,  as  the  hammer  is  that  of  the 
smith. 

If  the  matter  be  examined  however  casually, 
it  will  become  at  once  clear  that  what  we  are 
most  conscious  of  in  effort,  hope,  desire,  fear, 
love,  hatred,  and  determination,  are  the  workings 
and  manifestations  of  Will.  If  the  animal  is  con- 
sidered, it  will  be  seen  that  in  the  descending 
scale  intelligence  becomes  more  and  more  imper- 
fect, while  Will  remains  entirely  unaffected.  The 
smallest  insect  wants  what  it  wants  as  much  as 
man.  The  intellect,  moreover,  becomes  wearied, 
while  Will  is  indefatigable.  Indeed,  when  it  is 
remembered  that  such  men  as  Swift,  Kant,  Scott, 
Southey,  Rousseau,  and  Emerson  have  fallen  into 
a  state  of  intellectual  debility,  it  is  well-nigh  im- 
possible to  deny  that  the  mind  is  but  a  function 
of  the  body,  which,  in  turn,  is  a  function  of  the 
Will.  But  that  which  probably  shows  the  second- 
ary and  dependent  nature  of  the  intelligence  more 
clearly  is  its  peculiar  characteristic  of  intermit- 
tence  and  periodicity.  In  deep  sleep,  the  brain 


The  Sphinx's  Riddle.  89 

rests,  while  the  other  organs  continue  their  work. 
In  brief,  then,  Intellect  is  the  light  and  Will  the 
warmth.  "  In  me,"  Schopenhauer  says,  "  the  in- 
destructible is  not  the  soul,  but  rather,  to  employ 
a  chemical  term,  the  basis  of  the  soul,  which  is 
Will." 

Will,  moreover,  is  not  only  the  foundation  of 
being,  but,  as  has  been  noted,  it  is  the  universal 
essence.  Schopenhauer  points  out  the  ascension 
of  sap  in  plants,  which  is  no  easy  problem  in  hy- 
draulics, and  the  insect's  marvelous  anticipations 
of  the  future,  and  asks  what  is  it  all  but  Will  ? 
The  vital  force  itself,  he  says,  is  Will,  —  Will  to 
live,  —  while  the  organism  of  the  body  is  but  Will 
manifested,  Will  become  visible. 

As  Schopenhauer  describes  it,  Will  is  also 
identical,  immutable,  and  free.  Its  identity  is 
shown  in  inorganic  life  in  the  irresistible  tendency 
of  water  to  precipitate  itself  into  cavities,  the 
perseverance  with  which  the  loadstone  turns  to  the 
north,  the  longing  that  iron  has  to  attach  itself  to 
it,  the  violence  with  which  contrary  currents  of 
electricity  try  to  unite  the  choice  of  fluids,  and  in 
the  manner  in  which  they  join  and  separate.  In 
organic  life,  it  is  shown  by  the  fact  that  every 
vegetable  has  a  peculiar  characteristic :  one  wants 
a  damp  soil,  another  needs  a  dry  one ;  one  grows 
only  on  high  ground,  another  in  the  valley ;  one 
turns  to  the  light,  another  to  the  water ;  while  the 
climbing  plant  seeks  a  support.  In  the  animal 
kingdom  there  exists  another  form,  which  is  no- 
ticeable in  the  partly  voluntary,  partly  involun- 


90     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

tary  movements  of  the  lowest  type.  When,  how- 
ever, in  the  evolution  of  Will  the  insect  or  the 
animal  seeks  and  chooses  its  food,  then  intelli- 
gence begins  and  volition  passes  from  darkness 
into  light. 

Will,  too,  is  immutable.  It  never  varies  j  it  is 
the  same  in  man  as  in  the  caterpillar,  for,  as  has 
been  said,  what  an  insect  wants  it  wants  as  de- 
cidedly as  does  a  man ;  the  only  difference  is  in 
the  object  of  desire.  The  immutability  of  Will, 
moreover,  is  the  base  of  its  indestructibility ;  it 
never  perishes,  and  for  that  matter  what  does  ? 
In  the  world  of  phenomena  all  things,  it  is  true, 
seem  to  have  a  birth  and  a  death,  but  that  is  but 
an  illusion,  which  the  philosopher  does  not  share. 
Our  true  being,  and  the  veritable  essence  of  all 
things,  dwell,  Schopenhauer  says,  in  a  region 
where  time  is  not,  and  where  the  concepts  of 
birth  and  death  are  without  significance.  The 
fear  of  death,  he  adds  parenthetically,  is  a  purely 
independent  sentiment,  and  one  which  has  its 
origin  in  the  Will  to  live.  Briefly,  it  is  an  illusion 
which  man  brings  with  him  when  he  is  born,  and 
which  guides  him  through  life  ;  for  notice  that 
were  this  fear  of  death  perfectly  reasonable,  man 
would  be  as  uneasy  about  the  chaos  which  pre- 
ceded his  existence  as  about  that  which  is  to  fol- 
low it. 

Let  the  individual  die,  however ;  the  species  is 
indestructible,  for  death  is  to  the  species  as  sleep 
is  to  the  individual.  The  species  contains  the 
indestructible,  the  immutable  Will  of  which  the 


The  Sphinx's  Riddle.  91 

individual  is  a  manifestation.  It  contains  all  that 
is,  all  that  was,  and  all  that  will  be. 

"  When  we  think  of  the  future  and  of  the  com- 
ing generations,  the  millions  of  human  beings 
who  will  differ  from  us  in  habits  and  customs,  and 
we  try  in  imagination  to  fancy  them  with  us,  we 
wonder  from  where  they  will  spring,  where  they 
are  now  ?  Where  is  this  fecund  chaos,  rich  in 
worlds,  that  hides  the  generations  that  are  to  be  ? 
And  where  can  it  be  save  there,  where  every  re- 
ality has  been  and  will  be,  —  here,  in  the  present, 
and  what  it  contains.  And  you,  foolish  ques- 
tioner, who  do  not  recognize  your  own  essence, 
you  are  like  the  leaf  on  the  tree  which,  withering 
in  autumn,  and  feeling  it  is  about  to  fall,  laments 
at  death,  inconsolable  at  the  knowledge  of  the 
fresh  verdure  which  in  spring  will  cover  the  tree 
once  more.  The  leaf  cries,  'I  am  no  more.' 
Foolish  leaf,  where  do  you  go  ?  Whence  do  the 
fresh  leaves  come  ?  Where  is  this  chaos  whose 
gulf  you  fear?  See,  your  own  self  is  in  that 
force,  interior  and  hidden,  acting  on  the  tree 
which,  through  all  generations  of  leaves,  knows 
neither  birth  nor  death.  And  now  tell  me,"  Scho- 
penhauer concludes,  as  though  he  were  about  to 
pronounce  a  benediction,  "  tell  me,  is  man  unlike 
the  leaf  ? " 

This  doctrine,  which  teaches  that  through  all 
there  is  one  invariable,  identical,  and  equal  force, 
is  the  great  problem  whose  solution  was  sought 
by  Kant,  and  which  he  gave  up  in  despair  \  it  is 
the  discovery  which  makes  of  Schopenhauer  one 


92     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

of  the  foremost  thinkers  of  the  century,  and  one, 
it  may  be  added  without  any  unguarded  enthusi- 
asm, which  will  suffice  to  carry  his  name  into 
other  ages,  somewhat  in  the  same  manner  as  the 
name  of  Columbus  has  descended  to  us. 

"  If  we  were  to  consider,"  he  said,  "  the  nature 
of  this  force  which  admittedly  moves  the  world, 
but  whose  psychological  examination  is  so  little 
advanced  that  the  most  certain  analytical  results 
seem  not  unlike  a  paradox,  we  should  be  aston- 
ished at  this  fundamental  verity  which  I  have 
been  the  first  to  bring  to  light,  and  to  which  I 
have  given  its  true  name,  —  Will.  For  what  is 
the  world  but  an  enormous  Will  constantly  irrup- 
ting into  life.  Gravitation,  electricity,  heat,  every 
form  of  activity,  from  the  fall  of  an  apple  to  the 
foundation  of  a  republic,  is  but  the  expression  of 
Will,  and  nothing  more." 

This  doctrine  of  volition  coincides,  it  may  be 
noted,  very  perfectly  with  that  of  evolution,  and 
it  was  not  difficult  for  Schopenhauer  to  show  that 
the  more  recent  results  of  science  were  a  confir- 
mation of  his  philosophy.  In  the  "  Parerga," 
which  he  wrote  thirty  years  after  the  publication 
of  his  chief  work,  he  says  that  during  the  early 
stages  of  the  globe's  formation,  before  the  age  of 
granite,  the  objectivity  of  the  Will-to-live  was 
limited  to  the  most  inferior  forms  ;  also  that  the 
forces  were  at  that  time  engaged  in  a  combat 
whose  theatre  was  not  alone  the  surface  of  the 
globe,  but  its  entire  mass,  a  combat  too  colossal 
for  the  imagination  to  grasp.  When  this  Titan 


The  Sphinx  s  Riddle.  93 

conflict  of  chemical  forces  had  ended,  and  the 
granite,  like  a  tombstone,  covered  the  combat- 
ants, the  Will-to-live,  by  a  striking  contrast,  ir- 
rupted in  the  peaceful  world  of  plant  and  forest. 
This  vegetable  world  decarbonized  the  air,  and 
prepared  it  for  animal  life.  The  objectivity  of 
Will  then  realized  a  new  form,  —  the  animal 
kingdom.  Fish  and  crustaceans  filled  the  sea, 
gigantic  reptiles  covered  the  earth,  and  gradually 
through  innumerable  forms,  each  more  perfect 
than  the  last,  the  Will-to-live  ascended  finally  to 
man.  This  stage  attained  is,  in  his  opinion,  des- 
tined to  be  the  last,  for  with  it  is  come  the  pos- 
sibility of  the  denial  of  the  Will,  through  which 
the  divine  comedy  will  end. 

This  possibility  of  the  denial  of  the  Will,  and 
the  ransom  of  the  world  from  its  attendant  mis- 
ery thereby,  will  be  explained  later  on,  and  for 
the  moment  it  will  be  sufficient  to  note  that 
Schopenhauer  refused  to  admit  that  a  being  more 
intelligent  than  man  could  exist  either  here  or  on 
any  other  planet,  for  with  enlarged  intelligence 
he  would  consider  life  too  deplorable  to  be  sup- 
ported for  a  single  moment. 

If,  now,  the  foregoing  arguments  are  admitted, 
and  it  is  taken  for  granted  that  there  are  two  sep- 
arate and  distinct  hemispheres,  one  apparent  and 
one  real,  one  the  world  of  perceptions  and  one 
the  world  of  Will,  there  must  necessarily  be 
some  connection  between  the  two,  some  point  at 
which  they  meet  and  join.  This  chasm  Scho- 
penhauer lightly  bridges  over  with  those  ideas  of 


94     The  PhilosopJiy  of  Disenchantment. 

Plato  which  the  Middle  Ages  neglected,  and 
which  formed  the  banquet  and  the  sustenance 
of  the  Renaissance  :  in  fact,  the  eternal  yet  ever 
fresh  suggestions  that  Nature  offers  to  the  artist, 
and  which  the  sculptor  with  his  chisel,  the  poet 
with  his  pen,  the  painter  with  his  brush,  resusci- 
tate and  explain  anew. 

It  is,  however,  only  in  the  purest  contemplation 
that  these  suggestions  can  be  properly  received, 
and  it  is,  of  course,  in  genius  that  a  preeminent 
capacity  for  such  receptivity  exists.  For  it  is  as 
if  when  genius  appears  in  an  individual,  a  larger 
measure  of  the  power  of  knowledge  falls  to  his 
lot  than  is  necessary  for  the  service  of  an  indi- 
vidual will,  and  this  superfluity,  being  free,  be- 
comes, as  it  were,  the  mirror  of  the  inner  nature 
of  the  world,  or,  as  Carlyle  puts  it,  "  the  spirit- 
ual picture  of  Nature."  "  This,"  Schopenhauer 
notes  parenthetically,  "  explains  the  restless  ac- 
tivity of  the  genius,  for  the  present  can  rarely 
satisfy  him,  because  it  does  not  fill  his  thoughts. 
There  is  in  him  a  ceaseless  aspiration  and  desire 
for  new  and  lofty  things,  and  a  longing  to  meet 
and  communicate  with  others  of  similar  status. 
The  common  mortal,  on  the  other  hand,  filled 
with  the  hour,  ends  in  it,  and  finding  everywhere 
his  like  enjoys  that  satisfaction  in  daily  life  from 
which  the  genius  is  debarred." 

The  common  mortal,  the  bourgeois,  as  it  is  the 
fashion  to  call  him,  turned  out  as  he  is  daily  by 
the  thousand,  manufactured,  it  would  seem,  to 
order,  finds  in  his  satisfied  mediocrity  no  glim- 


The  Sphinx's  Riddle.  95 

mer,  even,  of  a  spark  that  can  predispose  him  to 
disinterested  observation.  Whatever  arrests  his 
attention  does  so  only  for  the  moment,  and  in 
all  that  appears  before  him  he  seeks  merely  the 
general  concept  under  which  it  is  to  be  brought, 
very  much  in  the  same  manner  as  the  indolent 
seek  a  chair,  which  then  interests  them  no  fur- 
ther. 

And  yet  it  is  unnecessary  to  pore  over  German 
metaphysics  to  know  that  whoso  can  lose  himself 
in  Nature,  and  sink  his  own  individuality  therein, 
finds  that  it  has  suddenly  become  a  suggestion, 
which  he  has  absorbed,  and  which  is  now  part  of 
himself.  It  is  in  this  sense  that  Byron  says  :  — 

"  Are  not  the  mountains,  waves,  and  skies  a  part 
Of  me  and  of  my  soul,  as  I  of  them  ?  " 

This  theory,  it  is  true,  is  not  that  of  all  great 
poets,  many  of  whom,  as  witness  Shelley  and 
Leopardi,  did  not  see  in  the  splendid  face  of  Na- 
ture that  they  could  not  be  absolutely  perishable, 
and  so  selfishly  mourned  over  their  own  weak- 
ness and  her  impassibility. 

According  to  Schopenhauer,  art  should  be 
strictly  impersonal,  and  contemplation  as  calm 
as  a  foretaste  of  Nirvana,  in  which  the  individual 
is  effaced  and  only  the  pure  knowing  subject 
subsists.  This  condition  he  praises  with  great 
wealth  of  adjective  as  the  painless  state  which 
Epicurus,  of  refined  memory,  celebrated  as  the 
highest  good,  the  bliss  of  the  gods,  for  therein 
"  man  is  freed  from  the  hateful  yoke  of  Will,  the 


96     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

penal  servitude  of  daily  life  ceases  as  for  a  Sab- 
bath, the  wheel  of  Ixion  stands  still."  The  cause 
of  all  this  he  is  at  no  loss  to  explain,  and  he  does 
so,  it  may  be  added,  in  a  manner  poetically  logi- 
cal and  peculiar  to  himself.  "  Every  desire  is 
born  of  a  need,  of  a  privation,  or  a  suffering. 
When  satisfied  it  is  lulled,  but  for  one  that  is 
satisfied  how  many  are  un appeased  !  Desire, 
moreover,  is  of  long  duration,  its  exigencies  are 
infinite,  while  pleasure  is  brief  and  narrowly 
measured.  Even  this  pleasure  is  only  an  appari- 
tion, another  succeeds  it ;  the  first  is  a  vanished 
illusion,  the  second  an  illusion  which  lingers  still. 
Nothing  is  capable  of  appeasing  Will,  nor  of  per- 
manently arresting  it ;  the  best  we  can  do  for  our- 
selves is  like  the  alms  tossed  to  a  beggar,  which 
in  preserving  his  life  to-day  prolongs  his  misery 
to-morrow.  While,  therefore,  we  are  dominated 
by  desires  and  ruled  by  Will,  so  long  as  we  give 
ourselves  up  to  hopes  that  delude  and  fears  that 
persecute,  we  have  neither  repose  nor  happiness. 
But  when  an  accident,  an  interior  harmony,  lift- 
ing us  for  the  time  from  out  the  infinite  torrent 
of  desire,  delivers  the  spirit  from  the  oppression 
of  the  Will,  turns  our  attention  from  everything 
that  solicits  it,  and  all  things  seem  as  freed  from 
the  allurements  of  hope  and  personal  interest, 
then  repose,  vainly  pursued,  yet  ever  intangible, 
comes  to  us  of  itself,  bearing  with  open  hands 
the  plenitude  of  the  gift  of  peace." 

The  fine  arts,  therefore,  as  well  as  philosophy, 
are  at  work  on  the  problem  of  existence.     Every 


The  Sphinx  s  Riddle.  97 

mind  that  has  once  rested  in  impersonal  contem- 
plation of  the  world  tends  from  that  moment  to 
some  comprehension  of  the  mystery  of  beauty 
and  the  internal  essence  of  all  things ;  and  it  is 
for  this  reason  that  every  new  work  which  grap- 
ples forcibly  with  any  actuality  is  one  more  an- 
swer to  the  question,  What  is  life  ? 

To  this  query  every  masterpiece  replies,  perti- 
nently, but  in  its  own  manner.  Art,  which  speaks 
in  the  ingenuous  tongue  of  intuition,  and  not  in 
the  abstract  speech  of  thought,  answers  the  ques- 
tion with  a  passing  image,  but  not  with  a  definite 
reply.  But  every  great  work,  be  it  a  poem,  a 
picture,  a  statue,  or  a  play,  answers  still.  Even 
music  replies,  and  more  profoundly  than  anything 
else.  Indeed,  art  offers  to  him  who  questions  an 
image  born  of  intuition,  which  says,  See,  this  is 
life. 

Briefly,  then,  contemplation  brings  with  it  that 
affranchisement  of  the  intelligence,  which  is  not 
alone  a  release  from  the  trammels  of  the  Will,  but 
which  is  the  law  of  art  itself,  and  raises  man  out 
of  misery  into  the  pure  world  of  ideas. 

In  the  treatment  of  this  subject,  which  in  the 
hands  of  other  writers  has  been  productive  of 
inexpressible  weariness,  Schopenhauer  has  given 
himself  no  airs.  In  what  has  gone  before  there 
has  been,  it  must  be  admitted,  no  attempt  to  nar- 
rate history,  and  then  pass  it  off  as  an  explana- 
tion of  the  Universe.  He  has  gone  to  the  root 
of  the  matter,  seized  a  fact  and  brought  it  to 
light,  without  any  nauseous  accompaniment  of 
7 


98     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

"  Absolutes  "  or  "  Supersensibles."  In  view  of 
the  magnitude  of  the  subject,  it  has  been  handled, 
I  think,  very  simply,  and  that  perhaps  for  the 
reason  that  simplicity  is  the  cachet  which  great- 
ness lends  to  all  its  productions.  If  in  these 
pages  it  has  seemed  otherwise,  the  fault  is  not 
that  of  the  master,  but  rather  that  of  the  clerk. 

The  question  as  to  what  the  world  is  has  been 
considered,  and  the  answer  conveyed  that  Will, 
the  essence  of  all  things,  is  a  blind,  unconscious 
force  which,  after  irrupting  in  inorganic  life  and 
passing  therefrom  through  the  vegetable  and  ani- 
mal kingdom,  reaches  its  culmination  in  man, 
and  that  the  only  relief  from  its  oppressive  yoke 
is  found  in  art  and  impersonal  contemplation. 
Taking  these  premises  for  granted,  and  admitting 
for  a  moment  their  corollary  that  life  is  a  rest- 
less pain,  it  will  be  found  that  the  sombre  conclu- 
sion which  follows  therefrom  has  been  deduced 
with  an  exactitude  which  is  comparable  only  to 
the  precision  of  a  prism  decomposing  light. 

Literature  is  admittedly  full  of  the  embarrass- 
ments of  transition,  and  philosophy  has  naturally 
its  attendant  share.  It  is,  of  course,  not  difficult 
for  the  metaphysician  to  say,  This  part  of  my 
work  is  theoretical,  and  this,  practical ;  but  to 
give  to  the  two  that  cohesion  which  is  neces- 
sary in  the  unfolding  of  a  single,  if  voluminous, 
thought  is  a  feat  not  always  performed  with  suc- 
cess. It  is,  therefore,  no  little  to  Schopenhauer's 
credit  that  he  triumphantly  connected  the  two  in 
such  wise  that  they  seem  as  though  fused  in  one, 


The  Sphinx's  Riddle.  99 

and  after  disposing  of  the  world  at  large  was  able 
to  turn  to  life  and  its  attendant,  pain. 

Now  in  all  grades  of  its  manifestation,  Will,  he 
teaches,  dispenses  entirely  with  any  end  or  aim  ; 
it  simply  and  ceaselessly  strives,  for  striving  is  its 
sole  nature.  As,  however,  any  hindrance  of  this 
striving,  through  an  obstacle  placed  between  it 
and  its  temporary  aim,  is  called  suffering,  and  on 
the  other  hand  the  attainment  of  its  end,  satis- 
faction, well-being,  or  happiness,  it  follows,  if  the 
obstacles  it  meets  outnumber  the  facilities  it  en- 
counters, that  having  no  final  end  or  aim,  there 
can  be  no  end  and  no  measure  of  suffering. 

But  does  pain  outbalance  happiness  ?  The 
question  is  certainly  complex,  and  for  that  matter 
unanswerable  save  by  a  cumbersome  mathemat- 
ical process  from  which  the  reader  may  well  be 
spared.  The  optimist  points  to  the  pleasures  of 
life,  the  pessimist  enumerates  its  trials.  Each 
judges  according  to  his  lights.  Schopenhauer's 
opinion  goes  without  the  telling,  and  as  he  gave 
his  whole  life  to  the  subject  his  verdict  may,  for 
the  moment,  be  allowed  to  pass  unchallenged. 
Still,  if  the  question  is  examined,  no  matter  how 
casually,  it  will  be  seen,  first,  that  there  is  no 
sensibility  in  the  plant  and  therefore  no  suffer- 
ing ;  second,  that  a  certain  small  degree  is  mani- 
fested in  the  lowest  types  of  animal  life  ;  third, 
that  the  capacity  to  feel  and  suffer  is  still  limited, 
even  in  the  case  of  the  most  intelligent  insects ; 
fourth,  that  pain  of  an  acute  degree  first  appears 
with  the  nervous  system  of  the  vertebrates ;  fifth, 


IOO     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

that  it  continues  to  increase  in  direct  propor- 
tion to  the  development  of  the  intelligence ;  and, 
finally,  that  as  intelligence  attains  distinctness, 
pain  advances  with  it,  and  what  Mr.  Swinburne 
calls  the  gift  of  tears  finds  its  supreme  expression 
in  man.  Truly,  as  Schopenhauer  has  expressed 
it,  man  is  not  a  being  to  be  greatly  envied.  He 
is  the  concretion  of  a  thousand  necessities.  His 
life,  as  a  rule,  is  a  struggle  for  existence  with  the 
certainty  of  defeat  in  the  end,  and  when  his  ex- 
istence is  assured,  there  comes  a  fight  with  the 
burden  of  life,  an  effort  to  kill  time,  and  a  vain 
attempt  to  escape  ennui. 

Nor  is  ennui  a  minor  evil.  It  is  not  every  one 
who  can  get  away  from  himself.  Schopenhauer 
could,  it  is  true,  but  in  so  doing  he  noted  that  its 
ravages  depicted  on  the  human  countenance  an 
expression  of  absolute  despair,  and  made  beings 
who  love  one  another  as  little  as  men  do  seek 
each  other  eagerly.  "  It  drives  men,"  he  said, 
"  to  the  greatest  excesses,  as  does  famine,  its 
opposite  extreme.  Public  precautions  are  taken 
against  it  as  against  other  calamities,  hence  the 
historical  pattern  et  circenses.  Want,"  he  added, 
"  is  the  scourge  of  the  people  as  ennui  is  that  of 
fashionable  life.  In  the  middle  classes  ennui 
is  represented  by  the  Sabbath,  and  want  by  the 
other  days  of  the  week." 

In  this  way,  between  desire  and  attainment, 
human  life  rolls  on.  The  wish  is,  in  its  nature, 
pain,  and  satisfaction  soon  begets  satiety.  No 
matter  what  nature  and  fortune  may  have  done 


The  Sphinx's  Riddle.  101 

no  matter  who  a  man  may  be,  nor  what  he  may 
possess,  the  pain  which  is  essential  to  life  can 
never  be  dodged.  Efforts  to  banish  suffering  ef- 
fect, if  successful,  only  a  change  in  its  form.  In 
itself  it  is  want  or  care  for  the  maintenance  of 
life  ;  and  if  in  this  form  it  is  at  last  and  with  diffi- 
culty removed,  back  it  comes  again  in  the  shape 
of  love,  jealous}',  lust,  envy,  hatred,  or  ambition  ; 
and  if  it  can  gain  entrance  through  none  of  these 
avatars,  it  comes  as  simple  boredom,  against 
which  we  strive  as  best  we  may.  Even  in  this 
latter  case,  if  at  last  we  get  the  upper  hand,  we 
shall  hardly  do  so,  Schopenhauer  says,  "  with- 
out letting  pain  in  again  in  one  of  its  earlier 
forms ;  and  then  the  dance  begins  afresh,  for  life, 
like  a  pendulum,  swings  ever  backward  and  for- 
ward between  pain  and  ennui." 

Depressing  as  this  view  of  life  may  be,  Scho- 
penhauer draws  attention  to  an  aspect  of  it  from 
which  a  certain  consolation  may  be  derived,  and 
even  a  philosophic  indifference  to  present  ills 
be  attained.  Our  impatience  at  misfortune,  he 
notes,  arises  very  generally  from  the  fact  that  we 
regard  it  as  having  been  caused  by  a  chain  of 
circumstances  which  might  easily  have  been  dif- 
ferent. As  a  rule,  we  make  little,  if  any,  com- 
plaint over  the  ills  that  are  necessary  and  univer- 
sal ;  such,  for  instance,  as  the  advance  of  age, 
and  the  death  which  must  claim  us  all ;  on  the 
contrary,  it  is  the  accidental  nature  of  the  sorrow 
that  gives  its  sting.  But  if  we  were  to  recognize 
that  pain  is  inevitable  and  essential  to  life,  and 


IO2     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

that  nothing  depends  on  chance  save  only  the 
form  in  which  it  presents  itself,  and  that  conse- 
quently the  present  suffering  fills  a  place  which 
without  it  would  be  occupied  by  another  which  it 
has  excluded,  —  then,  from  convictions  of  this  na- 
ture, a  considerable  amount  of  stoical  equanimity 
would  be  produced,  and  the  amount  of  anxious 
care  which  now  pervades  the  world  would  be  no- 
tably diminished.  But  fortifications  of  this  de- 
scription, however  cunningly  devised,  form  no 
bulwark  against  pain  itself ;  for  pain,  according 
to  Schopenhauer,  is  positive,  the  one  thing  that 
is  felt  j  while  on  the  other  hand,  satisfaction,  or, 
as  it  is  termed,  happiness,  is  a  purely  negative 
condition.  Against  this  theory  it  is  unnecessary 
to  bring  to  bear  any  great  battery  of  argument ; 
many  thinkers  have  disagreed  with  him  on  this 
point,  as  they  have  also  disagreed  with  his  asser- 
tion that  pleasure  is  always  preceded  by  a  want. 
It  is  true,  of  course,  that  unexpected  pleasures 
have  a  delight  whose  value  is  entirely  indepen- 
dent of  antecedent  desire.  But  unexpected  pleas- 
ures are  rare ;  they  do  not  come  to  us  every  day, 
and  when  they  do  they  cease  to  be  pleasures  ;  in- 
deed, their  rarity  may  in  this  respect  be  looked 
upon  as  the  exception  which  confirms  the  rule. 
Ample  proof,  however,  of  the  negativity  of  hap- 
piness is  found  in  art,  and  especially  in  poetry. 
Epic  and  dramatic  verse  represent  struggles,  ef- 
forts, and  combats  for  happiness  ;  but  happiness 
itself,  complete  and  enduring,  is  never  depicted. 
Up  to  the  last  scene  the  hero  copes  with  dangers 


The  Sphinx  s  Riddle.  103 

and  battleaxes  difficulties,  whereupon  the  curtain 
falls  upon  his  happiness,  which,  being  completely 
negative,  cannot  be  the  subject  of  art.  The 
idyl,  it  is  true,  professes  to  treat  of  happiness, 
but  in  so  doing  it  blunders  sadly,  for  the  poet 
either  finds  his  verse  turning  beneath  his  hands 
into  an  insignificant  epic  made  up  of  feeble  sor- 
rows, trivial  pleasures,  and  trifling  efforts,  or  else 
it  becomes  merely  a  description  of  the  charm  and 
beauty  of  Nature.  The  same  thing,  Schopenhauer 
says,  is  noticeable  in  music.  Melody  is  a  devia- 
tion from  the  keynote,  to  which,  after  many  mu- 
tations, it  at  last  returns  ;  but  the  keynote,  which 
expresses  "  the  satisfaction  of  the  will  "  is,  when 
prolonged,  perfectly  monotonous,  and  wearisome 
in  the  extreme. 

From  the  logic  of  these  arguments  it  is  clear 
that  Voltaire  was  not  very  far  wrong  when  he 
said  :  "  Happiness  is  but  a  dream,  and  only  pain 
is  real.  I  have  thought  so  for  eighty-four  years, 
and  I  know  of  no  better  plan  than  to  resign  my- 
self to  the  inevitable,  and  reflect  that  flies  were 
born  to  be  devoured  by  spiders,  and  man  to  be 
consumed  by  care." 

To  this  conclusion  the  optimist  will  naturally 
object,  but  he  does  so  in  the  face  of  history  and 
experience,  either  of  which  is  quite  competent  to 
prove  that  this  world  is  far  from  being  the  best 
one  possible.  If  neither  of  them  succeeds  in  so 
doing,  then  let  him  wander  through  the  hospitals, 
the  cholera  slums,  the  operating-rooms  of  the 
surgeon,  the  prisons,  the  torture-chambers,  the 


IO4     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

slave-kennels,  the  battlefields,  or  any  one  of  the 
numberless  haunts  of  nameless  misery ;  or,  if  all 
of  these  are  too  far,  or  too  inconvenient,  let  him 
take  a  turn  into  one  of  the  many  factories  where 
men  and  women,  and  even  infants,  work  from  ten 
to  fourteen  hours  a  day  at  mechanical  labor,  sim- 
ply that  they  may  continue  to  enjoy  the  exquisite 
delight  of  living. 

Moreover,  as  Schopenhauer  asks  with  grim 
irony,  "  Where  did  Dante  find  the  materials  for 
his  '  Inferno  '  if  not  from  this  world  ;  and  yet  is 
not  his  picture  exhaustively  satisfactory?  To 
some  minds  it  is  even  a  trifle  overcharged  ;  but 
look  at  his  Paradise  ;  when  he  attempted  to  de- 
pict it  he  had  nothing  to  guide  him,  this  pleasant 
world  could  not  offer  a  single  suggestion  ;  and 
so,  being  obliged  to  say  something,  and  yet  not 
knowing  what  to  say,  he  palms  off  in  place  of  a 
celestial  panorama  the  instruction  and  advice 
which  he  imagines  himself  as  receiving  from  Bea- 
trice and  the  Saints." 

Briefly,  then,  life,  to  the  pessimist,  is  a  motive- 
less desire,  a  constant  pain  and  continued  strug- 
gle, followed  by  death,  and  so  on,  in  secula  seculo- 
rum,  until  the  planet's  crust  crumbles  to  dust. 

Since,  therefore,  life  is  so  deplorable,  the  de- 
duction seems  to  follow  that  it  is  better  to  take 
the  poet's  advice  :  — 

"  Count  o'er  the  joys  thine  hours  have  seen, 

Count  o'er  thy  days  from  anguish  free, 
And  know,  whatever  thou  hast  been, 
'T  is  something  better  —  not  to  be." 


The  Sphinx  s  Riddle.  105 

But  here  the  question  naturally  arises,  how  is  this 
annihilation  to  be  accomplished  ?  Through  a 
vulgar  and  commonplace  suicide  ?  Not  at  all. 
Schopenhauer  is  far  too  logical  to  suggest  a  pal- 
liative so  fruitless  and  clap-trap  as  that.  For  sui- 
cide, far  from  being  a  denial  of  the  will  to  live,  is 
one  of  its  strongest  affirmations.  Paradoxical  as 
it  may  seem,  the  man  who  takes  his  own  life 
really  wants  to  live  ;  what  he  does  not  want  are 
the  misery  and  trials  attendant  on  his  particular 
existence.  He  abolishes  the  individual,  but  not 
the  race.  The  species  continues,  and  pain  with  it. 

In  what  manner,  then,  can  we  decently  rid  our- 
selves, and  all  who  would  otherwise  follow,  of  the 
pangs  and  torments  of  life  ?  Schopenhauer  will 
give  the  receipt  in  a  moment ;  but  to  understand 
the  method  clearly,  it  is  necessary  to  take  a 
glance  at  the  metaphysics  of  love. 

We  are  told  by  Dr.  Frauenstadt  that  Schopen- 
hauer considered  this  portion  of  his  philosophy 
to  be  "a  pearl."  A  pearl  it  may  be,  but  as  such 
it  is  not  entirely  suited  to  an  Anglo-Saxon  set- 
ting ;  nevertheless,  as  it  is  important  to  gain 
some  idea  of  what  this  clear-eyed  recluse  thought 
of  the  delicate  lever  which  disturbs  the  gravest 
interests,  and  whose  meshes  entwine  peer  and 
peasant  alike,  a  brief  description  of  it  will  not 
be  entirely  out  of  place. 

By  way  of  preface  it  may  be  said  that,  save 
Plato,  no  other  philosopher  has  cared  to  consider 
a  subject  so  simple  yet  complex  as  this,  and  of 
common  accord  it  has  been  relinquished  to  the 


io6     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment, 

abuse  of  the  poets  and  the  praise  of  the  rhyme- 
sters. It  may  be,  perhaps,  that  from  its  nature  it 
revolted  at  logic,  and  that  the  seekers  for  truth, 
in  trying  to  clutch  it,  resembled  the  horseman  in 
the  familiar  picture  who,  over  ditches  and  dykes, 
pursues  a  phantom  which  floats  always  before 
him,  and  yet  is  ever  intangible.  La  Rochefou- 
cauld, who  was  ready  enough  with  phrases,  ad- 
mitted that  it  was  indefinable  ;  a  compatriot  of 
his  tried  to  compass  it  with  the  epigram,  "  C'est 
1'egolsme  a  deux."  Balzac  gave  it  an  escutcheon. 
Every  one  has  had  more  or  less  to  say  about  it ; 
and  as  some  have  said  more  than  they  thought, 
while  others  thought  more  than  they  said,  it  has 
been  beribboned  with  enough  comparisons  to 
form  an  unportable  volume,  while  its  history, 
from  Tatterdemalia  to  Marlborough  House,  is 
written  in  blood  as  well  as  in  books. 

Love,  however,  is  the  basis  of  religion,  the 
mainstay  of  ethics,  as  well  as  the  inspiration  of 
lyric  and  epic  verse.  It  is,  moreover,  the  princi- 
pal subject  of  every  dramatic,  comic,  and  classic 
work  in  India,  Europe,  and  America,  and  the  in- 
exhaustible spring  from  whose  waters  the  fecund 
lands  of  fiction  produce  fresh  crops  more  regu- 
larly than  the  seasons.  It  is  a  subject  never 
lacking  in  actuality,  and  yet  one  to  which  each 
century  has  given  a  different  color.  It  is  recog- 
nized as  a  disease,  and  recommended  as  a  rem- 
edy. And  yet  what  is  it  ?  There  are  poets  who 
have  said  it  was  an  illusion ;  but  however  it  may 
appear  to  them,  it  is  no  illusion  to  the  philoso- 


The  Sphinx's  Riddle.  107 

pher  :  far  from  it ;  its  reality  and  importance  in- 
crease in  the  ratio  of  its  ardor,  and  whether  it 
turns  to  the  tragic  or  the  comic,  a  love  affair  is  to 
him,  above  all  other  early  aims,  the  one  which 
presents  the  gravest  aspects,  and  the  one  most 
worthy  of  consideration  ;  for  all  the  passions  and 
intrigues  of  to-day,  reduced  to  their  simplest  ex- 
pression and  divested  of  all  accompanying  al- 
lurements, are  nothing  more  nor  less  than  the 
combination  of  the  future  generation. 

"  It  is  through  this  frivolity,"  Schopenhauer 
says,  "  that  the  dramatis  persona  are  to  appear 
on  the  stage  when  we  have  made  our  exit.  The 
existence  of  these  future  actors  is  absolutely  con- 
ditioned on  the  general  instinct  of  love,  while 
their  nature  and  characteristics  depend  on  indi- 
vidual choice.  Such  is  the  whole  problem.  Love 
is  the  supreme  will  to  live,  the  genius  of  the  spe- 
cies, and  nature,  being  highly  strategic,  covers  it- 
self, for  the  fulfillment  of  its  aims,  with  a  mask  of 
objective  admiration,  and  deludes  the  individual 
so  cleverly  therewith,  that  he  takes  that  to  be  his 
own  happiness  which,  in  reality,  is  but  the  mainte- 
nance of  the  species." 

The  love  affairs  of  to-day,  therefore,  instead  of 
representing  questions  of  personal  joy  or  sorrow, 
are  simply  and  solely  a  series  of  grave  medita- 
tions on  the  existence  and  composition  of  the  fu- 
ture generation.  It  is  this  grand  preoccupation 
that  causes  the  pathos  and  sublimity  of  love.  It 
is  this  that  makes  it  so  difficult  to  lend  any  inter- 
est to  a  drama  with  which  the  question  is  not  in- 


io8     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

termingled.  It  is  this  that  makes  love  an  every- 
day matter,  and  yet  an  inexhaustible  topic.  It  is 
this  that  explains  the  gravity  of  the  role  it  plays, 
the  importance  which  it  gives  to  the  most  trivial 
incidents,  and  above  all,  it  is  this  that  creates  its 
measureless  ardor.  To  quote  Madame  Acker- 
mann  :  — 

"  Ces  delires  sacres,  ces  desirs  sans  mesure, 
Dechaines  dans  vos  flancs  comme  d'ardents  essaims, 
Ces  transports,  c'est  deja  1'humanite  future 
Qui  s'agite  en  vos  seins." 

However  disinterested  and  ideal  an  affection 
may  seem,  however  noble  and  elevated  an  attach- 
ment may  be,  it  is,  from  Schopenhauer's  stand- 
point, simply  Will  projecting  itself  into  the  crea- 
tion of  another  being ;  and  the  moment  in  which 
this  new  being  rises  from  chaos  into  the  punctum 
saliens  of  its  existence  is  precisely  that  moment 
in  which  two  young  people  begin  to  fancy  each 
other.  It  is  in  the  innocent  union  and  first  em- 
brace of  the  eyes  that  the  microbe  originates, 
though,  of  course,  like  other  germs,  it  is  fragile 
and  prompt  to  disappear.  In  fact,  there  are  few 
phenomena  more  striking  than  the  profoundly 
serious,  yet  unconscious,  manner  in  which  two 
young  people,  meeting  for  the  first  time,  observe 
one  another.  This  common  examination,  this 
mutual  study,  is,  as  has  been  stated,  the  medi- 
tation of  the  genius  of  the  species,  and  its  result 
determines  the  degree  of  their  reciprocal  inclina- 
tion. 

In  comedy  and  romance  the  sympathies  of  the 


The  Sphinx's  Riddle.  109 

spectator  are  invariably  excited  at  the  spectacle 
of  these  two  young  people,  and  especially  so  when 
they  are  discovered  defending  their  affection,  or, 
to  speak  more  exactly,  the  projects  of  the  genius 
of  the  species,  against  the  hostility  of  their  par- 
ents, who  are  solely  occupied  with  their  individ- 
ual interests.  It  is  unquestionably  for  this  rea- 
son that  the  interest  in  plays  and  novels  centres 
on  the  entrance  of  this  serene  spirit,  who,  with 
his  lawless  aims  and  aspirations,  threatens  the 
peace  of  the  other  actors,  and  usually  digs  deep 
graves  for  their  happiness.  As  a  rule,  he  suc- 
ceeds, and  the  climax,  comformably  with  poetic 
justice,  satisfies  the  spectator,  who  then  goes 
away,  leaving  the  lovers  to  their  victory,  and  as- 
sociating himself  in  the  idea  that  at  last  they  are 
happy,  whereas,  according  to  Schopenhauer,  they 
have,  in  spite  of  the  opposition  of  their  parents, 
simply  given  themselves  up  as  a  sacrifice  to  the 
good  of  the  species. 

In  tragedies  in  which  love  is  the  mainspring, 
the  lovers  usually  die,  because,  as  follows  from 
the  foregoing  logic,  they  have  been  unable  to  tri- 
umph over  those  designs  of  which  they  were  but 
the  instruments. 

As  Schopenhauer  adds,  however,  a  lover  may 
become  comic  as  well  as  tragic,  and  this  for  the 
reason  that  in  either  case  he  is  in  the  hands  of 
a  higher  power,  which  dominates  him  to  such  an 
extent  that  he  is,  so  to  speak,  carried  out  of  him- 
self, and  his  actions  in  consequence  become  dis- 
proportioned  to  his  character.  "  Hence  it  is  that 


no     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

the  higher  forms  of  love  bring  with  them  such 
poetic  coloring,  such  transcendental  and  super- 
natural elevation,  that  they  seem  to  veil  their 
true  end  and  aim  from  him  completely.  For  the 
moment,  he  is  animated  by  the  genius  of  the 
species.  He  has  received  a  mission  to  found  an 
indefinite  series  of  descendants,  and,  moreover, 
to  endow  them  with  a  certain  constitution,  and 
form  them  of  certain  elements  which  are  only  ob- 
tainable from  him  and  a  particular  woman.  The 
feeling  which  he  then  has  of  acting  in  an  affair 
of  great  importance  transports  the  lover  to  such 
superterrestial  heights,  and  garbs  his  material  na- 
ture with  such  an  appearance  of  immateriality 
that,  however  prosaic  he  may  generally  be,  his 
love  at  once  assumes  a  poetic  aspect,  a  result 
which  is  often  incompatible  with  his  dignity." 

In  brief,  the  instinct  which  guides  an  insect  to 
a  certain  flower  or  fruit,  and  which  causes  it  to 
disregard  any  inconvenience  or  danger  in  the  at- 
tainment of  its  end,  is  precisely  analogous  to  that 
sentiment  which  every  poet  has  tried  to  express, 
without  ever  exhausting  the  topic.  Indeed,  the 
yearning  of  love  which  brings  with  it  the  idea 
that  union  with  a  certain  woman  will  be  an  in- 
finite happiness,  and  that  the  inability  to  obtain 
her  will  be  productive  of  insufferable  anguish, 
cannot,  according  to  Schopenhauer,  be  considered 
to  have  its  origin  in  the  needs  of  the  ephemeral 
individual ;  it  is  in  fact  but  the  sigh  of  the  genius 
of  the  species,  who  sees  herein  a  unique  oppor- 
tunity of  realizing  his  aims,  and  who  in  conse- 
quence is  violently  agitated. 


The  Sphinx's  Riddle.  in 

Inasmuch  as  love  rests  on  an  illusion  of  per- 
sonal happiness,  which  the  supervising  spirit  is 
at  little  pains  to  evoke,  so  soon  as  the  tribute  is 
paid  the  illusion  vanishes,  and  the  individual,  left 
to  his  own  resources,  is  mystified  at  finding  that 
so  many  sublime  and  heroic  efforts  have  resulted 
simply  in  a  vulgar  satisfaction,  and  that,  taking 
all  things  into  consideration,  he  is  no  better  off 
than  he  was  before.  As  a  rule,  Theseus  once 
consoled,  Ariadne  is  forsaken,  and  had  Petrarch's 
passion  been  requited  his  song  would  then  have 
ceased,  as  that  of  the  bird  does  when  once  its 
eggs  are  in  the  nest. 

Every  love-match,  then,  is  contracted  in  the  in- 
terest of  the  future  generation,  and  not  for  the 
profit  of  the  individual.  The  parties  imagine,  it 
is  true,  that  it  is  for  their  own  happiness ;  but,  as 
Schopenhauer  has  carefully  explained,  owing  to 
the  instinctive  illusion  which  is  the  essence  of 
love  they  soon  discover  that  they  are  not  united 
to  each  other  in  any  respect,  and  this  fact  be- 
comes at  once  evident  when  the  illusion  which 
first  joined  them  has  at  last  disappeared.  Hence 
it  happens,  Schopenhauer  adds,  that  love-matches 
are  usually  unhappy,  for  they  but  assure  the  pres- 
ence of  the  next  generation  at  the  expense  of 
even-thing  else,  or,  as  the  proverb  runs,  "  Quien 
se  casa  por  amores  ha  de  viver  con  dolores." 

"  If  now,"  he  concludes,  "  we  turn  our  atten- 
tion to  the  tumult  of  life,  we  find  that  all  men 
are  occupied  with  its  torments,  we  see  them  unit- 
ing their  efforts  in  a  struggle  with  want  and  mass- 


112     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

ing  their  strength  against  misery,  and  yet  there, 
in  the  thick  of  the  fight,  are  two  lovers  whose 
eyes  meet,  charged  with  desire  !  But  why  do  they 
seem  so  timid,  why  are  their  actions  so  mysteri- 
ous ?  It  is  because  they  are  traitors  who  would 
perpetuate  the  pain  which,  without  them,  would 
soon  come  to  that  end  which  they  would  prevent, 
as  others  have  done  before  them." 

There  can  be  but  one  objection  to  this  novel 
theory,  which,  at  least,  has  the  merit  of  being 
thoroughly  logical,  as  well  as  that  of  connecting 
a  subject  so  intangible  as  love  to  the  fundamental 
principle  of  the  whole  doctrine,  and  that  is  that 
it  leaves  those  higher  and  purer  realms  of  affec- 
tion, of  which  most  of  us  are  conscious,  almost 
entirely  unvisited.  This  objection,  hov/ever,  loses 
much  of  its  force  when  it  is  remembered  that 
Schopenhauer  gave  to  this  division  of  his  sub- 
ject the  title  of  "  Metaphysics  of  Love,"  and  in 
so  doing  sought  solely  to  place  the  matter  on  a 
scientific  basis.  In  this  he  has  undoubtedly  suc- 
ceeded, and  his  explanation,  if  characteristic,  is 
not  for  that  reason  necessarily  unsound.  In  an- 
other essay,1  which  is  narrowly  connected  with 
the  one  in  hand,  he  takes  the  reader  from  the 
highest  spheres  of  pure  love  to  the  foundation  of 
ethics,  and  shows  that  both  are  derived  from  an 
identical  sentiment,  which  he  calls  compassion. 

And  since  grief  is  king,  what  better  primate 
can  he  have  than  sympathy?  To  the  thinker 

1  "  Das  Fundament  der  Moral,"  contained  in  Die  beiden 
Grundprobleme  der  Ethik.  Leipsic  :  Brockhaus. 


The  Sphinx's  Riddle.  113 

who  sees  joy  submerged  by  pain,  and  death  rule 
uncontested,  what  higher  sentiment  can  come 
than  that  of  pity  ?  Schopenhauer  has,  however, 
been  very  frequently  blamed  for  giving  this  as  the 
foundation  of  morality  ;  to  many  it  has  seemed 
too  narrow  and  incomplete,  and  an  academy  (that 
of  Copenhagen)  refused  to  crown  his  essay,  for 
that  very  reason.  But  whatever  objections  may 
be  brought  against  it,  its  originality  at  least  is 
unattackable.  In  ancient  philosophy,  ethics  was 
a  treatise  of  happiness  ;  in  modern  works,  it  is 
generally  a  doctrine  of  eternal  salvation  ;  to  Scho- 
penhauer, it  is  neither ;  for  if  happiness  is  unob- 
tainable, the  subject  is  necessarily  untreatable 
from  such  a  standpoint,  and  on  the  other  hand, 
if  morality  is  practiced  in  the  hope  of  future  re- 
ward, or  from  fear  of  future  punishment,  it  can 
hardly  be  said  to  spring  from  any  great  purity  of 
intention.  With  such  incentives  it  is  but  a  doc- 
trine of  expediency,  and  at  best  merely  adapted 
to  guide  the  more  or  less  interested  motives  of 
human  action ;  but  as  the  detection  of  an  inter- 
ested motive  behind  an  action  admittedly  suffices 
to  destroy  its  moral  value,  it  follows  that  the  cri- 
terion of  an  act  of  moral  value  must  be  the  ab- 
sence of  any  egotistic  or  interested  motive. 

Schopenhauer  points  out  that  acts  of  this  de- 
scription are  discernible  in  the  unostentatious 
works  of  charity,  from  which  no  possible  reward 
can  accrue,  and  in  which  no  personal  interest  is 
at  work.  "  So  soon,"  he  says,  "  as  sympathy  is 
awakened  the  dividing  line  which  separates  one 
8 


1 14     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

being  from  another  is  effaced.  The  welfare  and 
misfortunes  of  another  are  to  the  sympathizer  as 
his  own,  his  distress  speaks  to  him  and  the  suf- 
fering is  shared  in  common."  Meanwhile  this 
phenomenon,  which  he  sees  to  be  of  almost  daily 
occurrence,  is  yet  one  which  reason  cannot  ex- 
plain. All,  even  the  most  hard-hearted,  have  ex- 
perienced it,  and  they  have  done  so  very  often 
intuitively  and  to  their  own  great  surprise.  Men, 
for  instance,  risk  their  lives  spontaneously,  with- 
out possible  hope  of  gain  or  applause,  for  a  total 
stranger.  England,  some  years  ago,  paid  twenty 
millions  sterling  to  free  the  slaves  in  her  colo- 
nies, and  the  motive  of  that  grandiose  action  can 
certainly  not  be  attributed  to  religion,  for  the  New 
Testament  does  not  contain  a  word  against  slav- 
ery, though  in  the  days  to  which  it  refers  slavery 
was  universal. 

It  is  pity,  then,  according  to  Schopenhauer, 
which  is  the  base  of  every  action  that  has  a  true 
moral  value.  "  Indeed,"  he  says,  "  the  soundest, 
the  surest  guarantee  of  morality  is  the  compas- 
sionate sympathy  that  unites  us  with  everything 
that  lives.  Before  it  the  casuist  is  dumb.  Whoso 
possesses  it  is  incapable  of  causing  the  slightest 
harm  or  injury  to  any  one  ;  rather  to  all  will  he 
be  magnanimous,  he  will  forgive,  he  will  assist, 
and  each  of  his  actions  will  be  distinguished  by 
its  justice  and  its  charity."  In  brief,  compassion 
"  is  the  spontaneous  product  of  nature,  which, 
while  independent  of  religion  and  culture,  is  yet 
so  pervasive  that  everywhere  it  is  confidently 


The  Sphinx's  Riddle.  115 

evoked,  and  nowhere  counted  among  the  un- 
known gods.  It  is  compassion  that  makes  the 
mother  love  best  her  feeblest  child.  Truly  the 
man  who  possesses  no  compassion  is  outside  of 
humanity." 

The  idea  that  runs  through  the  whole  subject, 
and  which  is  here  noted  because  its  development 
leads  to  the  logical  climax  of  the  entire  philoso- 
phy, is  that  all  love  is  sympathy,  or,  rather,  all 
pure  love  is  sympathy,  and  all  love  which  is  not 
sympathy  is  selfishness.  Of  course  combinations 
of  the  two  are  frequently  met ;  genuine  friend- 
ship, for  instance,  is  a  mixture  of  both,  the  self- 
ishness consisting  in  the  pleasure  experienced  in 
the  presence  of  the  friend,  and  the  sympathy  in 
the  participation  in  his  joys  and  sorrows.  With 
this  theory  as  a  starting-point,  Schopenhauer  re- 
duces every  human  action  to  one,  or  sometimes 
to  two,  or  at  most  three  motives  :  the  first  is  self- 
ishness, which  seeks  its  own  welfare  ;  the  second 
is  the  perversity  or  viciousness  which  attacks  the 
welfare  of  others  ;  and  the  third  is  compassion, 
which  seeks  their  good.  The  egotist  has  but  one 
sincere  desire,  and  that  is  the  greatest  possible 
amount  of  personal  well-being.  To  preserve  his 
existence,  to  free  it  from  pain  and  privation,  and 
even  to  possess  every  delight  that  he  is  capable 
of  imagining,  such  is  his  end  and  aim.  Every 
obstacle  between  his  selfishness  and  his  desires 
is  an  enemy  to  be  suppressed.  So  far  as  pos- 
sible he  would  like  to  possess  everything,  enjoy 
everything,  dominate  everything.  His  motto  is, 


Il6     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

"  All  for  me,  nothing  for  you."  When,  therefore, 
the  power  of  the  state  is  eluded,  or  becomes  mo- 
mentarily paralyzed,  all  at  once  the  riot  of  sel- 
fishness and  perversity  begins.  One  has  but  to 
read  the  "Causes  Celebres,"  or  the  history  of 
anarchies,  to  see  what  selfishness  and  perversity 
are  capable  of  accomplishing  when  once  their 
leash  is  loosed. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  social  ladder  is  he  whose 
desire  for  life  is  so  violent  that  he  cares  nothing 
for  the  rights  of  others,  and  for  a  small  personal 
advantage  oppresses,  robs,  or  kills.  Above  him 
is  the  man  who  never  violates  the  rights  of 
others,  —  unless  he  has  a  tempting  opportunity, 
and  can  do  so  with  every  reasonable  assurance  of 
safety,  —  the  respectable  citizen  who  pays  his 
taxes  and  pew-rent,  and  once  in  a  while  serves  on 
the  jury.  On  a  higher  level  is  he  who,  possessing 
a  considerable  income,  uses  but  little  of  it  for 
himself  and  gives  the  rest  to  the  poor,  the  man 
who  makes  less  distinction  than  is  usually  made 
between  himself  and  others.  Such  an  one  is  as 
little  likely  to  let  others  starve  while  he  himself 
has  enough  and  to  spare,  as  another  would  be  to 
hunger  one  day  that  he  might  eat  more  the  next. 
To  a  man  of  this  description  the  veil  of  Mayi, 
which  may  be  taken  to  mean  the  veil  of  illu- 
sions, has  become  transparent.  He  recognizes 
himself  in  every  being,  and  consequently  in  the 
sufferer. 

Let  this  veil  of  Maya  be  lifted  from  the  eyes 
of  a  man  to  such  an  extent  that  he  makes  no  dis- 


The  Sphinx  s  Riddle.  117 

tinction  at  all  between  himself  and  others,  and 
is  not  only  highly  benevolent,  but  ready  at  all 
times  to  sacrifice  himself  for  the  common  good ; 
then  he  has  in  him  the  holiness  of  the  saint  and 
the  germ  that  may  flower  into  renunciation.  The 
phenomenon,  Schopenhauer  says,  by  which  this 
change  is  marked  is  the  transition  from  virtue  to 
asceticism.  In  other  words,  it  then  no  longer 
suffices  for  him  to  love  others  as  himself ;  there 
arises  within  him  a  horror  of  the  kernel  and  es- 
sence of  the  world,  which  recognizably  is  full  of 
misery,  and  of  which  his  own  existence  is  an  ex- 
pression, and  thereupon  denying  the  nature  that 
is  in  him,  and  ceasing  to  will  anything,  he  gives 
himself  up  to  complete  indifferentism  to  all  things. 

Such,  in  outline,  is  Schopenhauer's  theory  of 
ethics,  which,  starting  from  the  principle  of  kind- 
ness of  heart,  leads  to  the  renunciation  of  all 
things,  and,  curious  as  the  denouement  may  ap- 
pear, at  last  to  universal  deliverance. 

In  earlier  pages  the  world  has  been  explained 
to  be  utterly  unsatisfactory,  and  it  has  been 
hinted  that  the  suicide,  were  he  delivered  of  his 
suffering,  would  gladly  rehabilitate  himself  with 
life  ;  for  it  is  the  form  of  life  that  the  suicide  re- 
pudiates, not  life  itself.  But  life,  to  be  scientifi- 
cally annihilated,  should  be  abolished,  not  only  in 
its  suffering,  but  in  its  empty  pleasures  and  hap- 
piness as  well ;  its  entire  inanity  should  be  recog- 
nized, and  the  whole  root  cut  once  and  for  all. 
In  explaining  in  what  manner  this  is  to  be  accom- 
plished, Schopenhauer  carries  his  reader  bon  gre, 


1 1 8      The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

mal  grk,  far  off  into  the  shadows  of  the  Orient. 
On  the  one  side  is  the  lethargy  of  India,  on  the 
other  China  drugged  with  opium,  while  above  all 
rises  the  fantasy  of  the  East,  the  dogma  of  me- 
tempsychosis. 

As  has  been  seen,  Schopenhauer  holds  that 
there  is  in  every  life  an  indestructible  principle. 
This  belief  he  shares  with  the  Buddhist,  the 
Brahmin,  the  ancient  Druid,  and  the  early  Scan- 
dinavian ;  historically  speaking,  the  doctrine  is 
so  old  that  a  wise  Anglican  is  reported  to  have 
judged  it  fatherless,  motherless,  and  without  gen- 
ealogy. Properly  speaking,  however,  this  creed 
does  not  now  insist  that  there  is  a  transmigra- 
tion of  the  soul,  but  rather,  in  accordance  with 
recent  esoteric  teaching,  it  implies  simply  that 
the  fruit  of  good  and  evil  actions  revives  with 
the  individual  through  a  succession  of  lives,  until 
the  evil  is  outbalanced,  the  good  is  paramount, 
and  deliverance  is  at  last  attained.  In  other 
words,  the  beautiful  myth  of  the  early  faith  is 
superseded  by  an  absurd  and  awkward  palingen- 
esia. 

Schopenhauer  gives  the  name  of  Will  to  that 
force  which,  in  Indian  philosophy,  is  considered 
to  resurrect  with  man  across  successive  lives, 
and  with  which  the  horror  of  ulterior  existences 
reappears.  It  is  from  this  nightmare  that  we  are 
summoned  to  awake,  but  in  the  summons  we  are 
told  that  the  awakening  can  only  come  with  a 
recognition  of  the  true  nature  of  the  dream. 
The  work  to  be  accomplished,  therefore,  is  less 


The  Sphinx  s  Riddle.  119 

physical  than  moral.  We  are  not  to  strangle 
ourselves  in  sleep,  but  to  rise  out  of  it  in  medita- 
tion. 

"In  man,"  says  Schopenhauer,  "the  Will-to- 
live  advances  to  consciousness,  and  consequently 
to  that  point  where  it  can  readily  choose  between 
its  continuance  or  abolitioa.  Man  is  the  saviour, 
and  all  nature  awaits  its  redemption  through  him. 
He  is  at  once  the  priest  and  the  victim." 

If,  therefore,  in  the  succeeding  generations  the 
appetite  for  death  has  been  so  highly  cultivated, 
and  compassion  is  so  generally  practiced,  that  a 
widespread  and  united  pity  is  felt  for  all  things, 
then  through  asceticism,  which  the  reader  may  con- 
strue universal  and  absolute  chastity,  that  state 
of  indifference  will  be  produced  in  which  subject 
and  object  disappear,  and  —  the  sigh  of  the  egoist 
Will  once  choked  thereby  into  a  death-rattle  — 
the  world  will  be  delivered  from  pain. 

"  It  is  this,"  Schopenhauer  exclaims  in  his 
concluding  paragraph,  "that  the  Hindus  have 
expressed  in  the  empty  terms  of  Nirvana,  and 
reabsorption  in  Brahma.  We  readily  recognize 
that  what  remains  after  the  entire  abolition  of 
the  Will  is  without  effect  on  those  in  whom  it 
still  works;  but  to  those  in  whom  it  has  been 
crushed,  what  is  this  world  of  ours  with  its  suns 
and  stellar  systems  ?  Nothing." 

In  the  preface  to  the  second  edition  of  the 
"  Welt  als  Wille  und  Vorstellung,"  Schopenhauer 
recommends  that  the  work  be  read  by  the  light 
of  his  supplementary  essays.  This  task,  beyond 


I2O     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

demanding  an  agility  of  pencil  and  some  concen- 
tration, is  otherwise  one  of  the  most  morbidly 
agreeable  that  can  be  suggested.  The  sensation 
that  comes  with  a  first  reading  is  that  of  an  ab- 
rupt translation  to  the  wonders  of  a  world  which 
heretofore  may  have  been  dimly  perceived,  but 
which  then  for  the  first  time  is  visited  and  thor- 
oughly explored.  The  perspective,  it  is  true, 
holds  no  Edens  ;  in  the  distance  there  are  no 
Utopias ;  but  when  the  journey  is  ended  and  the 
book  laid  aside,  the  peaks  and  abysses  to  which 
the  reader  has  been  conducted  stand  steadfast  in 
memory,  and  the  whole  panorama  of  deception 
and  pain  groups  itself  in  a  retrospect  as  sudden 
and  clear  as  that  which  attends  the  last  moments 
of  the  drowning  man. 

And  Schopenhauer  is  the  least  pedantic,  and 
yet  the  most  luminous  of  ciceroni :  in  pages  which 
Hugo  would  not  disavow,  and  of  which  the  fore- 
going analysis  can  give  at  best  but  a  bald  and 
unsatisfactory  idea,  he  explains  each  height  and 
ruin  with  an  untiring  verve,  and  with  an  irony  as 
keen  and  fundamental  as  Swift's.  But  beyond  his 
charm  as  a  stylist,  and  his  exhaustive  knowledge 
of  life,  he  claims  attention  through  his  theory 
of  the  universal  force,  his  originality  in  the  treat- 
ment of  ethics,  and  the  profound  ingenuity  with 
which  he  attaches  everything,  from  a  globule  to 
an  adagio  in  B  flat,  to  his  general  system. 

It  is  said  that  philosophy  begins  precisely 
where  science  ends  j  the  doctrine,  therefore, 
which  has  just  been  considered  is,  in  a  measure, 


The  Sphinx's  Riddle.  121 

impregnable  to  criticism.  Reduced  to  its  simplest 
expression,  it  amounts  briefly  to  this :  an  un- 
known principle  —  anx,  which  no  term  can  trans- 
late, but  of  which  Will,  taken  in  the  widest  sense  of 
Force,  is  the  rendition  the  least  inexact  —  explains 
the  universe.  The  highest  manifestation  of  Will 
is  man ;  any  obstacle  it  encounters  is  pain.  Pain 
is  the  attendant  of  life.  Man,  however,  duped 
by  the  instinct  of  love,  has  nothing  better  to  do 
than  to  prolong  through  his  children  the  sorrow- 
ful continuation  of  unhappy  generations.  The 
hope  of  a  future  existence  in  a  better  world 
seems  to  be  a  consolation,  but  as  a  hope  it  rests 
on  faith.  Since  life  is  not  a  benefit,  chaos  is  pref- 
erable. Beyond  suicide,  which  is  not  a  philo- 
sophic solution,  there  are  but  two  remedies  for 
the  misery  of  life  ;  one,  a  palliative,  is  found  in 
art  and  disinterested  contemplation  ;  the  other,  a 
specific,  in  asceticism  or  absolute  chastity.  Were 
chastity  universal,  it  would  drain  the  source  of 
humanity,  and  pain  would  disappear;  for  if  man 
is  the  highest  manifestation  of  Will,  it  is  permis- 
sible to  assume  that,  were  he  to  die  out,  the 
weaker  reflections  would  pass  away  as  the  twi- 
light vanishes  with  the  full  light. 

All  great  religions  have  praised  asceticism, 
and  in  consequence  it  was  not  difficult  for  Scho- 
penhauer to  cite,  in  support  of  his  theory,  a  num- 
ber of  texts  from  the  gnostics,  the  early  fathers 
of  the  church,  the  thinkers,  such  as  Angelius, 
Silesius,  and  Meister  Eckhard,  the  mystics,  and 
the  quietists,  together  with  pertinent  extracts 


122     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

from  the  Bible  and  the  sacred  books  of  the 
Orient.  But  none  of  these  authorities  seem  to 
have  grasped  the  principle  which,  according  to 
Schopenhauer,  lies  at  the  root  of  asceticism  and 
constitutes  its  chief  value.  At  best,  they  have 
seen  in  it  but  the  merit  of  obedience  to  a  fantastic 
law,  the  endurance  of  a  gratuitous  privation,  or 
else  they  have  blessed  in  celibacy  the  exaltation 
of  personal  purity  and  the  renunciation  of  worldly 
pleasures.  From  the  philosophic  standpoint,  how- 
ever, the  value  of  asceticism  consists  in  the  fact 
that  it  leads  to  deliverance,  prepares  the  world 
for  the  annihilation  of  pain,  and  indicates  the 
path  to  be  pursued.  Through  his  labors  and 
sympathy  the  apostle  of  charity  succeeds  in  sav- 
ing from  death  a  few  families  which,  in  conse- 
quence of  his  kindness,  are  condemned  to  a  long 
misery.  The  ascetic,  on  the  other  hand,  does  far 
better ;  he  preserves  whole  generations  from  life, 
and  in  two  or  three  instances  very  nearly  suc- 
ceeded in  saving  the  world.  "  The  women," 
Schopenhauer  says  somewhere,  "  refused  to  join 
in  the  enterprise,  and  that  is  wh'y  I  hate  them." 

If  asceticism  were  practiced  by  all  men,  it 
follows  that  pain,  so  far  as  man  is  concerned, 
would  cease  in  it.  But  is  it  permissible  to  as- 
sume that  with  the  disappearance  of  man  the 
world  will  vanish  with  him  —  in  other  words,  if 
humanity  dies  out,  that  animality  must  necessa- 
rily follow  after  ? 

It  is  here,  if  anywhere,  that  Schopenhauer  has 
blundered ;  the  world  is  deplorably  bad,  let  the 


The  Sphinx?*  Riddle.  123 

optimist  and  thoughtless  say  what  they  will,  and 
it  would  undoubtedly  be  very  advantageous  to 
have  the  whole  universe  tumble  into  sudden 
chaos ;  but  that  such  a  consummation  is  to  be 
brought  about  by  voluntary  asceticism  is,  in  the 
present  state  of  society,  and  independent  of  the 
opposition  of  women,  greatly  to  be  doubted. 

Schopenhauer  has  denied  that  a  being  superior 
to  man  could  exist ;  if,  then,  the  nineteenth  cent- 
ury, which  plumes  itself  on  the  mental  elevation 
and  culture  of  the  age,  and  in  looking  back  at 
the  ignorance  of  earlier  epochs  considers  itself 
the  top  of  all  creation,  —  if,  then,  the  nineteenth 
century,  in  its  perspicacity,  refuses  such  a  solu- 
tion, there  is  little  left  for  humanity  to  do  save  to 
bear  the  pains  of  life  as  it  may,  or,  better  still, 
with  the  resignation  which  Leopardi  long  ago 
suggested. 

When,  putting  aside  this  eccentric  theory  of 
deliverance,  the  teaching  of  Schopenhauer  is  re- 
viewed, it  will,  according  to  the  nature  of  the 
reader,  bring  with  it  a  warm  approval  or  a  horri- 
fied dissent.  To  some  he  will  appear  like  an  in- 
carnation of  the  Spirit  of  Truth  ;  to  others  like 
the  skeleton  in  Goya's  painting,  which,  leaning 
with  a  leer  from  the  tomb,  scrawls  on  it  the  one 
word,  Nada,  —  nothing. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE   BORDERLANDS   OF   HAPPINESS. 

IT  was  with  something  of  the  lassitude  which 
succeeds  an  orgy  that  Schopenhauer  turned  from 
the  riot  of  the  will  and  undertook  to  examine 
such  possibilities  of  happiness  as  life  may  yet 
afford,  and,  as  incidental  thereto,  the  manner  in 
which  such  possibilities  may  be  most  enjoyed. 

To  this  subject  he  brought  a  sumptuous  variety 
of  reflections,  which  are  summed  up  in  a  multi- 
colored essay,  entitled  "  Lebensweisheit,"  or  Con- 
duct of  Life,  but  in  which,  in  spite  of  the  luxury 
of  detail  and  brilliancy  of  description,  Schopen- 
hauer almost  unconsciously  reminds  the  reader 
of  a  man  who  takes  his  constitutional  at  midnight, 
and  preferentially  when  it  rains. 

The  suggestions  that  occur  to  him  are  almost 
flamboyant  in  their  intensity,  and  yet  about  them 
all  there  circles  such  a  series  of  dull  limitations 
that  one  somehow  feels  a  sense  of  dumbness  and 
suffocation,  a  longing  to .  get  away  and  rush  out 
into  an  atmosphere  less  charged  with  sombre 
conclusions. 

Concerning  the  baseness  and  shabbiness  of 
every-day  life  Schopenhauer  has  but  little  to  say. 


The  Borderlands  of  Happiness.       125 

He  touches  but  lightly  on  its  infinite  vulgarity, 
while  its  occasional  splendor  is  equally  unno- 
ticed. Indeed,  he  preaches  not  to  redeem  nor 
convert,  but  simply  that  his  hearers  may  be  in 
some  measure  enlightened  as  to  the  bald  unsat- 
isfactoriness  of  all  things,  and  so  direct  their  in- 
dividual steps  as  to  come  as  little  in  contact  with 
avoidable  misery  as  possible.  To  many  it  will, 
of  course,  seem  quite  appalling  that  a  mind  so 
richly  receptive  as  his  should  have  chosen  such 
shaggy  moorlands  for  habitual  contemplation, 
when,  had  he  wished,  he  might  have  feasted  his 
eyes  on  resplendent  panoramas.  The  moorlands, 
however,  were  not  of  his  making ;  he  was  merely 
a  painter  filling  in  the  landscape  with  objects 
which  stood  within  the  perspective,  and  if  he 
happened  upon  no  resplendent  panoramas,  the 
fault  lay  simply  in  the  fact  that  he  had  been 
baffled  in  his  attempt  to  find  them. 

Voltaire  says,  somewhere,  "  I  do  not  know  what 
the  life  eternal  may  be,  but  at  all  events  this  one 
is  a  very  poor  joke."  In  this  sentiment  Scho- 
penhauer solemnly  concurred.  That  which  was 
a  boutade  to  the  one  became  a  theory  to  the 
other,  and  it  is  to  his  treatment  of  this  subject 
that  the  attention  of  the  reader  is  now  invited. 
The  introduction  which  he  gives  to  it,  if  not  as 
light  as  the  overture  to  a  ballet,  will,  it  is  be- 
lieved, still  be  found  both  interesting  and  instruc- 
tive, while  its  conclusion  and  supplement  form, 
it  may  be  noted,  an  admitted  part  of  that  which 
is  best  of  the  modern  essayists. 


126     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

The  first  chapter  opens  with  an  enumeration 
of  those  possessions  which  differentiate  the  lot 
of  man,  and  which  in  so  doing  form  the  basis  of 
possible  happiness.  It  has  been  said  that  the 
happiest  land  is  the  one  which  has  little,  if  any, 
need  of  importations,  and  he  notes  that  the  man 
is  most  contented  whose  interior  wealth  suffices 
for  his  own  amusement,  and  who  demands  but 
little,  if  anything,  from  the  exterior  world.  Or, 
as  Oliver  Goldsmith  has  expressed  it,  — 

"  Still  to  ourselves  in  ev'ry  place  consigned 
Our  own  felicity  we  make  or  find." 

"  In  a  world  such  as  ours,"  Schopenhauer  thinks, 
"  he  who  has  much  to  draw  upon  from  within  is 
not  unlike  a  room  in  which  stands  a  Christmas 
tree,  bright,  warm,  and  joyous,  while  all  about 
are  the  snows  and  icicles  of  a  December  night." 

That  which  a  man  is  in  himself,  that  which  ac- 
companies him  into  solitude,  and  which  none  can 
give  him  or  take  from  him,  is  necessarily  more 
essential  than  all  that  he  may  possess  or  all  that 
he  may  appear  in  the  eyes  of  others.  The 
scholar,  for  instance,  even  when  utterly  alone 
feeds  most  agreeably  on  his  own  thoughts,  and 
we  are  most  of  us  very  well  aware  that  he  whose 
intelligence  is  limited  may  ceaselessly  vary  his 
festivals  and  amusements  without  ever  succeed- 
ing in  freeing  himself  from  the  baleful  weariness 
of  boredom. 

According  to  Schopenhauer,  then,  the  supreme 
and  all-important  elements  of  earthly  happiness 


The  Borderlands  of  Happiness.      1 27 

are  subjective  possessions,  such  as  a  noble  char- 
acter, a  capable  mind,  an  easy  disposition,  and  a 
well-organized  and  healthy  body ;  and  it  is  these 
gifts,  he  rightly  insists,  that  should  be  cultivated 
and  preserved,  even  at  the  expense  of  wealth 
and  emolument.  An  easy  disposition,  however, 
is  that  which  above  all  other  things  contributes 
most  directly  to  contentment.  Gayety  of  heart  is, 
indeed,  its  own  recompense,  and  he  who  is  really 
gay  has  a  reason  for  so  being  from  the  very  fact 
that  he  is  so.  Supposing  a  man  to  be  young, 
handsome,  rich,  and  respected,  the  one  question 
to  be  asked  about  him  is,  Is  he  light-hearted? 
On  the  other  hand,  if  he  is  light-hearted,  little 
does  it  matter  whether  he  is  young  or  old,  straight- 
limbed  or  deformed,  poor  or  rich ;  in  any  case  he 
is  contented.  It  is  light-heartedness  alone  which 
is,  so  to  speak,  the  hard  cash  of  happiness ;  all 
the  rest  is  but  the  note-of-hand ;  and  in  making 
this  observation,  he  (Schopenhauer)  is  careful  to 
point  out  that  there  is  nothing  that  contributes 
so  little  to  gayety  as  wealth,  and  noihing  that 
contributes  so  much  thereto  as  health.  "  It  is 
in  the  lower  classes,  among  the  laborers,  and  par- 
ticularly among  the  tillers  of  the  soil,  that  gayety 
and  contentment  are  to  be  found,  while  on  the 
other  hand,  the  faces  of  the  great  and  the  rich 
generally  present  an  expression  of  sullen  con- 
straint. To  thoroughly  understand,  however,  how 
greatly  happiness  depends  on  gayety  of  dispo- 
sition and  the  state  of  health,  it  is  only  neces- 
sary to  compare  the  impression  which  the  same 


128     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

circumstances  and  similar  wants  bring  to  us  in 
days  of  health  and  vigor,  with  that  which  is  para- 
mount when  through  our  condition  we  are  pre- 
disposed to  dullness  and  discontent.  In  brief,  it 
is  not  the  event  itself,  but  the  way  in  which  we 
view  it,  that  makes  or  unmakes  our  happiness." 
Or,  as  Epictetus  said  long  ago,  man  is  not  moved 
by  things,  but  by  his  opinion  of  them. 

As  a  general  rule,  nine  tenths  of  happiness 
may  be  said  to  rest  on  the  state  of  health  ;  when 
this  is  perfect,  anything  and  everything  may  be 
a  source  of  pleasure  ;  in  illness,  on  the  other 
hand,  nothing,  no  matter  what  its  nature  may  be, 
is  capable  of  affording  any  real  enjoyment.  It 
follows,  therefore,  that  it  is  wanton  stupidity  to 
sacrifice  health  for  any  purpose,  even  for  wealth 
and  fame,  and  especially  to  passing  and  fugitive 
pleasures,  however  alluring  they  may  appear. 

The  next  class  of  possessions  of  which  Scho- 
penhauer treats  is  property  ;  and  in  considering 
this  division  he  seems  not  unlike  that  contented 
individual  who,  on  seeing  a  quantity  of  objects  ex- 
posed for  sale,  exclaimed  pensively,  "  How  much 
there  is  of  which  I  have  no  need  !  " 

Every  man,  it  will  be  admitted,  has  his  own 
horizon,  beyond  which  his  pretensions  do  not 
extend.  They  reach  the  edge,  but  they  do  not 
cross  it.  In  other  words,  the  absence  of  those 
possessions  with  which  a  man  is  unacquainted 
is  in  no  sense  a  privation  to  him ;  and  it  is  prob- 
ably for  this  reason  that  the  day-laborer  bothers 
himself  so  little  about  the  flaring  wealth  of  the 


The  Borderlands  of  Happiness.      129 

rich.  Wealth,  on  the  other  hand,  is  like  salt 
water ;  the  more  one  drinks,  the  greater  the  thirst. 
But,  even  so,  this  grim  philosopher  was  far  from 
despising  it.  "It  is  a  rampart  against  an  in- 
calculable number  of  discomforts ;  and  it  is  in 
this  manner  that  it  should  be  viewed,  instead  of 
being  considered,  as  is  generally  the  case,  in  the 
light  of  a  permission  to  procure  a  diversity  of 
pleasure." 

As  a  practical  man,  Schopenhauer  saw  nothing 
that  could  make  his  ink  blush  in  repeatedly  rec- 
ommending the  preservation  of  a  fortune,  made 
or  inherited  ;  "  for  even,"  he  says,  "  if  it  simply 
suffices  to  permit  its  possessor  to  live  without  the 
necessity  of  labor,  it  is  still  an  inappreciable  ad- 
vantage in  that  it  brings  with  it  an  exemption 
from  the  general  drudgery  which  is  the  ordinary 
lot  of  man.  It  is  only  on  this  condition  that 
man  is  born  free,  master  of  his  hour  and  his 
strength,  and  enabled  to  say  each  morning,  '  The 
day  is  mine.'  The  difference,  therefore,  between 
him  who  has  a  thousand  crowns  a  year  and  the 
landlord  whose  rent-roll  runs  into  millions  is  in- 
finitely less  than  the  difference  between  the  first 
and  the  man  who  has  nothing." 

If  the  man  whose  necessities  are  provided 
for  is  inclined  to  follow  Schopenhauer's  advice, 
he  will,  first  of  all,  seek  in  repose  and  leisure  the 
avoidance  of  every  form  of  discomfort ;  especially 
will  he  seek  to  lead  a  tranquil  and  unpretentious 
existence  which,  so  far  as  possible,  will  be  shel- 
tered from  all  intruders.  After  having  for  a  cer- 
9 


130     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

tain  time  kept  up  relations  with  what  is  termed 
the  world,  he  will  prefer  a  retired  life  ;  and  if 
he  is  of  superior  intelligence,  he  will  give  him- 
self up  to  solitude.  This  he  will  do,  because  the 
more  a  man  possesses  in  himself,  the  less  he 
has  need  of  the  exterior  world.  Superiority  of 
intelligence  will  therefore  lead  him  to  insociabil- 
ity ;  for,  as  Schopenhauer  says,  "  It  is  precisely  in 
solitude,  where  each  of  us  is  dependent  on  his 
own  resources,  that  every  one  is  brought  face  to 
face  with  his  own  individuality ;  there  the  imbe- 
cile in  his  purple  groans  beneath  the  weight  of 
his  miserable  self,  while  he  who  is  mentally  gifted 
peoples  and  animates  with  his  thoughts  the  most 
arid  and  desert  region." 

Now,  it  may  be  objected  that  contentment  is 
not  to  be  found  in  an  idle  folding  of  the  hands 
behind  a  hedge  set  against  vexation.  Nor  is  this 
Schopenhauer's  meaning.  Wealth  is  but  the 
means,  not  the  source  of  contentment.  It  is  not 
the  certainty  of  an  income  that  brings  happiness, 
for  its  accompanying  affranchisement  from  want 
carries  the  tenant  to  the  opposite  pole  of  misery, 
where  gapes  the  hydra,  ennui.  And  it  is  there 
that  he  whose  necessities  are  provided  for  surely 
lands,  unless  he  fills  the  hour  with  some  one  of 
the  many  elevated  pursuits  from  which  those  who 
are  obliged  to  work  for  their  bread  are  in  a  great 
measure  debarred. 

The  third  and  last  class  of  possessions  that 
Schopenhauer  discusses  is  that  which  a  man  rep- 
resents ;  or,  in  other  words,  the  manner  in  which 


The  Borderlands  of  Happiness.      131 

he  appears  to  his  neighbors.  "  There  is,"  he 
says,  "  no  superstition  more  universally  dominant 
than  that  which  leads  us  to  attach  a  high  value  to 
the  opinion  of  others  ;  and  whether  it  be  that 
this  superstition  has  its  roots  in  our  very  nature, 
or  that  it  has  followed  us  up  from  the  birth  of  so- 
ciety and  civilization,  it  is  none  the  less  certain 
that  it  influences  our  conduct  in  a  manner  which 
is  incommensurate,  and  hostile  to  our  well-being. 
This  influence  may  be  traced  from  the  point 
in  which  it  shows  itself  beneath  the  anxious  and 
servile  deference  to  the  qu'en  dira-t-ony  to  that  in 
which  it  drives  the  dagger  of  Virginius  into  his 
daughter's  heart,  or  else  to  where  it  leads  men  to 
sacrifice  their  peace,  their  fortune,  their  wealth, 
and  their  lives,  for  the  sake  of  posthumous  re- 
nown." 

The  existence,  however,  which  we  lead  in  the 
minds  of  others  is  a  possession,  Schopenhauer 
has  carefully  explained,  which,  through  a  singular 
weakness,  while  highly  prized  is  yet  entirely  un- 
important to  our  happiness.  Indeed,  if  the  com- 
parison be  drawn  between  that  which  we  are  in 
reality  and  that  which  we  are  in  the  eyes  of  oth- 
ers, it  will  be  seen  that  the  first  term  of  the  com- 
parison comprises  our  entire  existence,  for  its 
sphere  of  action  is  in  our  own  perceptions,  while, 
on  the  other  hand,  that  which  we  represent  acts 
on  other  minds  than  our  own,  and  in  consequence 
has  no  direct  existence  for  us,  and  an  indirect 
one  only  so  far  as  it  may  influence  their  conduct 
toward  us.  The  wealthy,  in  their  uttermost  mag- 


132      The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

nificence,  can  but  say,  "Our  happiness  is  entirely 
outside  of  us  ;  it  dwells  in  the  minds  of  others." 
Certainly,  to  a  happiness  of  this  description  every 
thinker  is  indifferent,  or  will  necessarily  become 
so  as  he  grows  aware  of  the  superficiality  and 
dullness  of  mind,  the  narrow  sentiments  and  lim- 
ited ideas,  the  absurdity  of  opinion  and  number- 
less errors,  which  go  to  the  making  of  his  neigh- 
bor's brain.  Indeed,  it  is  generally  sufficient  to 
note  with  what  contempt  half-a-dozen  imbeciles 
will  speak  of  some  distinguished  man,  to  be  quite 
ready  to  agree  with  Schopenhauer  that  in  accord- 
ing a  high  value  to  the  opinion  of  others  we  are 
paying  them  an  honor  which  they  in  no  sense 
deserve. 

It  is  essential  to  our  well-being  to  thoroughly 
understand  the  simple  fact  that  each  one  lives 
but  in  his  own  particular  skin  and  not  in  the 
opinion  of  others,  and  that,  therefore,  our  actual 
condition  as  determined  by  health,  temperament, 
intellect,  wife,  children,  and  home,  is  a  hundred 
times  more  important  than  what  it  may  please 
others  to  think  about  us ;  fame,  of  course,  is 
very  pleasant ;  so  is  glory ;  but,  after  all,  what  do 
they  amount  to  ?  As  has  been  seen,  Leopard! 
snapped  his  fingers  at  them  both.  To  him  they 
were  simply  illusions.  Schopenhauer  goes  more 
deeply  into  the  subject,  and  explains  with  great 
opulence  of  detail  and  fantasy  of  adjective  that 
glory  and  fame  are  founded  on  that  which  a  man 
is  in  comparison  to  others  ;  in  other  words,  that 
their  value  is  purely  relative,  and  would  disappear 


The  Borderlands  of  Happiness.       133 

entirely  if  every  one  became  that  which  a  celeb- 
rity is  already.  It  is  not  fame  that  is  so  desira- 
ble, but  rather  the  merit  which  should  precede  it. 
"The  predisposing  conditions  are,  so  to  speak, 
the  substance,  while  glory  itself  is  but  the  acci- 
dent, which  works  on  its  possessor  as  an  exterior 
symptom,  and  confirms  his  own  high  opinion  of 
himself.  But  this  symptom  is  yet  not  infallible, 
for  is  there  not  glory  without  merit  and  merit 
without  fame  ? " 

As  glory  is  incontestably  but  the  echo,  the 
image,  the  shadow,  the  simulachre  of  merit,  and 
as  in  any  case  that  which  is  admirable  should  be 
more  highly  valued  than  the  admiration  that  it 
excites,  it  follows  that  that  which  causes  happi- 
ness does  not  consist  in  glory,  but  rather  in  the 
attracting  force  of  merit ;  or,  to  put  it  more  ex- 
actly, in  the  possession  of  such  character  and 
faculties  as  predispose  thereto. 

To  be  deserving  of  fame  is,  then,  its  own  ex- 
ceeding great  reward.  There  all  the  honor  lies, 
and  necessarily  this  must  be  true,  "  for,  as  a  rule, 
the  reverberation  of  a  glory  that  is  to  echo 
through  future  ages  rarely  reaches  the  ears  of 
him  who  is  the  object ;  and  though  certain  in- 
stances to  the  contrary  may  be  objected,  yet  they 
have  usually  been  due  to  fortuitous  circumstances 
which  are  otherwise  without  great  importance. 
Men  lack  ordinarily  the  proper  balance  of  judg- 
ment which  is  necessary  for  the  appreciation  of 
superior  productions ;  and  in  these  matters  they 
usually  take  the  opinion  of  others,  and  that,  too, 


134     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

in  such  wise  that  ninety-nine  admirers  out  of  a 
hundred  accord  their  praise  at  the  nod  of  one." 
It  is  for  this  reason  that  the  approbation  of  one's 
contemporaries,  however  numerous  their  voices 
may  be,  has  so  slight  a  value  for  the  thinker,  for 
at  best  he  can  hearken  to  the  voices  of  the  few, 
which  in  themselves  may  be  but  the  effect  of  the 
moment.  "  Would  a  virtuoso  be  greatly  flattered 
by  the  applause  of  his  public  if  he  learned  that, 
with  but  two  or  three  exceptions,  the  auditorium 
was  filled  with  deaf  mutes  who,  to  conceal  their 
infirmity,  clapped  a  loud  approval  so  soon  as  they 
saw  a  real  listener  move  his  hands  ?  And  how 
would  it  be  if  he  knew  the  leaders  of  the  clique 
were  often  paid  to  procure  a  great  success  to  the 
most  insignificant  scraper  of  cat-gut  ?  " 

It  is  with  reflections  of  this  description  that 
Schopenhauer  explains  why  it  is  that  sudden  ce- 
lebrity so  rarely  passes  into  immortal  glory,  and 

points  — 

..."  how  hard  it  is  to  climb 
The  heights  where  Fame's  proud  temple  shines  afar," 

and  even,  the  summit  gained,  the  uselessness  of 
it  all. 

This  same  conclusion  has  been  reached  by  sev- 
eral other  writers,  notably  by  Leopardi,  whose 
views  have  been  already  explained,  and  by  Von 
Hartmann,  whose  theories  are  mentioned  in  the 
next  chapter ;  but  the  main  idea  has  perhaps 
been  best  expressed  by  D'Alembert,  who,  in 
speaking  of  the  temple  of  fame,  says,  "  Its  inte- 
rior is  inhabited  only  by  the  dead  who  were  not 


The  Borderlands  of  Happiness.      135 

there  in  their  life-time,  and  by  certain  aspirants 
who  are  shown  the  door  as  soon  as  they  die." 

To  sum  up  what  Schopenhauer  has  set  forth, 
and  of  which  the  foregoing  detached  ideas  can 
give  at  best  but  a  lame  conception,  we  find  that 
to  his  mind,  as  perhaps  to  that  of  every  serious 
thinker,  the  first  and  most  essential  condition  of 
contentment  is  the  quality  of  character ;  and  this 
would  be  essential  if  only  because  it  is  always 
in  action,  but  it  is  so,  even  to  a  greater  extent, 
because  it  is  the  only  possession  which  cannot 
in  some  manner  be  taken  from  us.  In  this  sense 
he  considers  its  value  as  absolute  when  opposed 
to  the  relative  value  of  mere  possessions  and  the 
opinion  of  others.  In  brief,  man  is  not  so  sus- 
ceptible to  the  influence  of  the  exterior  world  as 
it  is  generally  supposed,  for  only  Time  can  exer- 
cise his  sovereign  rights  upon  him.  Beneath  this 
force  the  physical  and  intellectual  qualities  wane 
and  gradually  succumb,  the  moral  character  alone 
remaining  invulnerable. 

Considered  in  this  connection,  actual  posses- 
sions and  the  opinions  which  others  hold  con- 
cerning us  have  this  advantage  over  character: 
they  need  not  necessarily  be  affected  by  time; 
moreover,  being  accessible  in  their  nature  they 
both  may  be  acquired,  while,  on  the  other  hand, 
character  once  established  remains  invariable  for 
life.  Schopenhauer  evidently  does  not  hold  with 
him  who  sings  — 

"  That  men  may  rise  on  stepping-stones 
Of  their  dead  selves,  to  higher  things." 


1 36     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

All  that  can  be  done,  he  has  explained,  is  to  em- 
ploy the  individuality,  such  as  it  is,  to  the  great- 
est profit ;  or,  in  other  words,  a  man  should  pur- 
sue only  those  aspirations  which  correspond  to 
his  disposition,  and  only  choose  in  consequence 
that  occupation  and  walk  of  life  which  is  best 
suited  to  it. 

From  the  preponderance  thus  given  to  the  first 
of  these  three  divisions  over  the  two  others,  it 
follows  that  it  is  far  better  to  watch  over  health 
and  the  development  of  the  intellect  than  it  is 
to  attend  to  the  acquisition  of  wealth.  Schopen- 
hauer, of  course,  does  not  mean  that  the  acquisi- 
tion of  that  which  is  necessary  to  one's  proper 
maintenance  should  be  in  any  wise  neglected  ;  far 
from  it.  His  idea  is  simply  that  a  superfluity 
of  riches,  instead  of  contributing  to  well-being, 
brings  with  it  an  inevitable  vexation  in  the  con- 
stant care  which  the  management  of  a  large  for- 
tune demands. 

Briefly,  then,  the  essential  element  of  content- 
ment is  that  which  one  is  in  himself,  and  it  is 
simply  because  the  dose  is  ordinarily  so  small 
that  the  majority  of  those  who  have  been  con- 
querors in  the  struggle  with  want  feel  themselves 
to  be  as  thoroughly  unhappy  as  those  who  are  still 
in  the  thick  of  the  fight.  But  still,  whatever  the 
issue  of  the  conflict  may  be,  each  one  among  us 
is  enjoined  to  aspire  to  a  good  repute.  Honor  is 
an  inappreciable  belonging,  and  glory,  the  most 
exquisite  of  all  that  is  within  the  reach  of  man, 
is  the  Golden  Fleece  of  the  elect. 


The  Borderlands  of  Happiness.      137 

The  second  and  third  divisions  have  upon  each 
other  a  reciprocal  effect:  wealth  brings  with  it 
the  good  opinion  of  others,  and  the  good  opinion 
of  others  has  aided  many  a  man  on  the  road  to 
fortune  ;  taken  together  they  represent  over  again 
the  habes,  haberis  of  Petronius,  yet  the  factors 
that  reside  within  us  contribute  more  liberally  to 
contentment  than  those  which  are  born  of  things. 

It  is  somewhat  in  this  manner,  but  with  a  con- 
ciseness of  deduction  and  a  felicity  of  diction 
which  the  foregoing  summary  is  inadequate  even 
to  suggest,  that  Schopenhauer,  without  any  no- 
ticeable effort,  points  quietly  and  with  a  certain 
suavity  of  self-confidence  to  the  fact  that  there 
is,  in  spite  of  all  our  bluster  and  hurrying  about, 
very  little  in  life  that  is  of  much  consequence. 
There  is,  of  course,  little  that  is  terrifying  in  what 
he  has  written  ;  there  is  no  incentive  and  no 
stimulus,  as  the  phrase  goes,  to  be  up  and  doing ; 
indeed,  to  the  reflective  mind  his  logic  will  have 
somewhat  the  effect  of  a  sedative,  and  to  many 
he  will  seem  to  hold  that  the  best  use  life  can  be 
put  to  is  to  pass  it  in  a  sort  of  dilettante  quiet- 
ism. Such  in  the  main  is  his  idea,  but  it  is  an 
idea  which,  to  be  acted  upon,  necessitates  a  re- 
finement of  the  senses  and  a  burnish  of  the  intel- 
lect such  as  is  possessed  but  by  the  few,  and 
consequently  the  fear  of  its  general  adoption 
need  cause  but  small  alarm.  It  may  be  remem- 
bered that,  beyond  the  surface  of  things  here  ex- 
amined, he  pointed,  in  another  essay,  to  the  in- 
fluence of  morality  on  general  happiness,  and 


138     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

recommended  the  practice  of  charity,  forbear- 
ance, and  good  will  to  all  men,  as  one  of  the  first 
conditions  of  mental  content. 

Against  all  this,  naturally,  many  objections 
might  be  raised,  and  several  ameliorations  could 
be  suggested,  but  in  the  main  the  teaching  has  a 
certain  sound  value  which  it  would  be  difficult  to 
talk  away.  Champfort  has  said,  "  Happiness  is 
no  easy  matter;  it  is  hard  to  find  it  within  us, 
and  impossible  to  find  it  elsewhere,"  and  this 
aphorism,  with  which  Schopenhauer  decked  his 
title-page,  served  pretty  much  as  keynote  to  the 
whole  essay.  All  the  way  through  he  has  in- 
sisted that  the  prime  essential  is  what  one  is  in 
one's  self,  that  is,  in  character  and  disposition, 
but  not  wealth  nor  yet  the  esteem  of  others ; 
these,  it  is  true,  are  pleasing  additions,  but  not 
the  sine  qua  non. 

Wealth,  however,  is  too  greatly  prized  to  suffer 
from  a  theoretic  treatment  any  appreciable  dimi- 
nution in  general  esteem,  and  there  are  necessa- 
rily few  who  will  object  to  it  because  they  are 
told  it  is  an  extra  burden.  Perhaps  Schopen- 
hauer would  not  have  turned  his  back  upon  it 
either  had  he  been  put  to  the  test,  but  as  he  es- 
caped that,  the  conjecture  is  comparatively  use- 
less ;  still,  few  men  can  eat  two  dinners,  and 
those  who  have  that  capacity  are  seldom  objects 
of  envy,  even  to  the  disciples  of  Baron  Brisse. 
The  dinners  may  stand,  of  course,  for  figurative 
repasts,  and,  according  to  Schopenhauer,  if  a  man 
has  enough,  a  superfluity  is  not  only  unnecessary, 


The  Borderlands  of  Happiness.      139 

but  may  readily  resolve  itself  into  a  cause  of 
vexation. 

Certainly,  as  Schiller  said,  we  are  all  born  in 
Arcadia :  that  is,  we  enter  life  fully  persuaded 
that  happiness  exists,  and  that  it  is  most  easy  to 
make  acquaintance  with  it ;  but,  generally  speak- 
ing, experience  soon  lets  us  know  that  happiness 
is  a  will  o'  the  wisp,  which  is  only  visible  from 
afar,  while  on  the  other  hand,  suffering  and  pain 
have  a  reality  so  insistent  that  they  present  them- 
selves not  only  at  once  and  unexpectedly,  but 
without  any  of  the  flimsiness  of  illusion.  In 
Schopenhauer's  view,  the  best  the  world  has  to 
offer  is  an  existence  of  painless  tranquillity ; 
pleasures  are  and  always  will  be  negative,  and  to 
consider  them  otherwise  is  a  mistake  which  brings 
its  own  punishment  with  it.  Pain,  on  the  con- 
trary, is  positive,  and  it  is  in  its  absence  that  the 
ladder  to  possible  contentment  may  be  found. 
If,  then,  from  a  condition  of  this  description,  viz. : 
one  which  is  devoid  of  pain,  boredom  be  also 
subtracted,  then  the  reader  may  be  sure  that  this 
is  the  pinnacle  of  earthly  happiness,  and  that 
anything  that  lies  beyond  belongs  to  the  domain 
of  pure  chimera. 

In  the  chapter  succeeding  the  one  just  consid- 
ered Schopenhauer  added  certain  reflections  on 
the  proper  conduct  of  life  which,  though  loose 
and  unsystematic,  are  yet  peculiarly  fertile  in  sug- 
gestion, and  entirely  free  from  the  more  or  less 
accentuated  platitudes  with  which  other  writers 
have  dulled  the  subject. 


140     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

In  this  essay  he  holds  that  the  supreme  rule  of 
earthly  wisdom  is  contained  in  Aristotle's  dictum 
that  the  sage  will  seek  to  dwell  where  pain  is 
not,  and  not  where  pleasure  is.  The  truth  of  this 
axiom  he  establishes  by  a  constant  reiteration  of 
his  favorite  theory  that  pleasure  as  well  as  happi- 
ness is  negative,  and  only  pain  is  real.  Now 
other  writers,  particularly  Mr.  James  Sully  and 
Herr  von  Hartmann,  have  rebelled  against  this 
statement,  but  the  force  of  their  arguments  has 
not  been  strong  enough  to  confute  it.  Indeed, 
mere  logic  can  make  no  man  contented,  and  in 
any  event,  if  a  philosopher  considers  pleasure  as 
a  negative  condition,  and  the  critic  prefers  to 
look  upon  it  in  a  different  light,  the  student  is  no 
more  bound  to  agree  with  the  one  than  with  the 
other ;  he  will,  if  properly  advised,  draw  his  con- 
clusions from  his  own  sensations.  In  accordance 
with  the  best  views,  however,  Schopenhauer  is 
right  and  his  critics  wrong.  A  homely  example 
which  he  suggests  may  perhaps  serve  to  set  the 
matter  straight :  when  we  are  in  perfect  health, 
and  there  is  but  one  little  painful  spot  some- 
where —  for  instance,  an  aching  tooth  or  a  swol- 
len finger  —  our  otherwise  perfect  health  is  unno- 
ticed, and  our  attention  is  directed  entirely  to  the 
pain  we  are  experiencing,  while  pleasure,  deter- 
mined, as  always,  by  the  totality  of  the  sensations, 
is  entirely  effaced.  In  the  same  manner,  when 
everything  in  which  we  are  interested  is  going  as 
we  wish,  save  one  thing  which  is  going  the  wrong 
way,  it  is  this  particular  thing  that  is  constantly 


The  Borderlands  of  Happiness.       141 

in  our  mind,  and  not  the  other  and  more  import- 
ant matters,  which  are  giving  us  no  concern. 

Schopenhauer's  advice,  therefore,  is  that  atten- 
tion should  not  be  directed  to  the  pleasures  of 
life,  but  to  the  means  by  which  its  innumerable 
evils  may  best  be  escaped.  If  this  recommenda- 
tion is  not  sound,  then  Voltaire's  aphorism  —  hap- 
piness is  but  a  dream  and  only  pain  is  real  —  is 
as  false  in  appearance  as  it  is  correct  in  reality. 
Whoever,  then,  would  draw  up  a  balance  sheet  of 
pleasure  and  pain  should  not  base  the  sum  total 
on  the  amount  of  pleasures  which  he  has  en- 
joyed, but  rather  in  accordance  with  the  pains 
which  he  has  avoided.  For  as  it  has  been  pointed 
out,  life  at  best  is  not  given  to  us  to  be  enjoyed, 
but  to  be  endured,  and  the  happiest  man  is,  there- 
fore, he  who  has  wandered  through  life  with  the 
smallest  burden  of  physical  and  mental  suffering, 
and  not  he  to  whom  the  most  vivid  delights  and 
in  tensest  joys  have  been  accorded. 

In  any  case,  the  greatest  piece  of  stupidity  of 
which  man  can  be  guilty  is  to  wish  to  transform 
his  theatre  of  misery  into  a  pleasure-ground,  and 
to  attempt  to  seek  happiness  therein,  instead  of 
trying,  as  he  should,  to  avert  as  many  pains  as 
possible.  There  are,  of  course,  many  who  are 
foolish  enough  not  to  take  this  view  of  life ;  but, 
according  to  Schopenhauer,  those  who  do  not  do 
so  are  much  more  at  fault  than  those  who,  with 
excess  of  precaution,  look  upon  the  world  as  a 
burning  pit,  and  occupy  themselves  to  the  best  of 
their  ability  in  procuring  a  fire-proof  dwelling. 


142     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

The  simpleton  will  always  run  after  pleasure, 
and  the  pessimist  will  do  all  he  can  to  give  pain 
a  wide  berth  ;  if,  in  spite  of  his  efforts,  the  suc- 
cess of  the  latter  is  small,  the  fault  is  not  so  much 
his  as  that  of  fate  ;  and  if,  in  pursuance  of  this 
idea,  he  has  taken  a  very  roundabout  way  and 
uselessly  sacrificed  any  amount  of  possible  pleas- 
ures without  any  appreciable  benefit,  he  can  at 
least  take  heart  again  in  the  knowledge  that  he 
has  in  reality  lost  nothing  at  all,  for  the  possible 
pleasures  are  such  pure  chimeras  that  it  is  simply 
childish  to  grieve  about  them. 

It  is,  Schopenhauer  says,  because  this  mistake 
is  so  frequently  made  in  favor  of  optimism  that 
such  a  number  of  misfortunes  occur,  for  in  those 
moments  that  we  are  free  from  discomfort  "  dis- 
quieting desires  dazzle  our  eyes  with  the  illusions 
of  an  unreal  yet  seductive  happiness,  and  lure  us 
on  to  a  suffering  which  is  neither  the  one  nor  the 
other;  then  indeed  do  we  grieve  over  the  lost  es- 
tate, which  was  exempt  from  pain,  as  over  a  par- 
adise on  which  we  have  wittingly  turned  the  key. 
In  this  way  it  seems  as  though  some  evil  spirit 
was  constantly  working  a  deceptive  mirage  to 
draw  us  from  that  freedom  from  pain,  which  is 
the  supreme  and  only  real  happiness." 

Now,  the  average  young  man  is  usually  pos- 
sessed of  some  vague  conviction  that  the  world, 
stretching  out  before  him  to  unseen  limits,  is  the 
seat  of  a  tangible  happiness,  which  only  escapes 
those  who  are  not  clever  enough  to  grasp  it. 
This  conviction,  moreover,  is  strengthened  by  ro- 


The  Borderlands  of  Happiness.      143 

mance  and  verse,  and  by  that  hypocrisy  which 
leads  the  world  always  by  the  thread  of  exterior 
appearance.  Ever  after,  his  life  is  a  more  or  less 
prudently  conducted  hunt,  a  chase  for  a  fictitious 
game,  until  at  last  with  a  round  turn  he  is  pulled 
up  face  to  face  with  disenchantment,  and  finds 
that  the  infinite  vistas  narrow  down  to  a  dark  al- 
ley, with  a  dead  wall  at  the  end. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  careful  observer  of  men 
and  things  will  mark  a  protest  on  his  own  exist- 
ence ;  he  will  have  no  great  hopes,  and  but  few 
regrets  ;  Plato  long  ago  said  there  is  nothing  in 
life  worth  a  struggle,  and  to  this  maxim  Schopen- 
hauer's ideal  reader  will  attune  his  days  and,  in 
any  variations  he  may  attempt,  keep  always  to  the 
minor  key. 

The  chief  difficulty,  however,  which  the  candi- 
date in  pessimism  will  encounter  in  his  first  at- 
tempt to  practice  the  foregoing  recommendations 
is  that  which  is  raised  by  the  hypocrisy  of  the 
world,  to  which  allusion  has  been  already  made ; 
and  yet,  in  Schopenhauer's  teaching,  the  most 
practical  lesson  that  can  be  given  to  youth  is  the 
showing  up  of  the  whole  thing  for  the  sham  that 
it  is.  "The  splendors  are  merest  tinsel,"  he 
says ;  "  the  essence  of  the  thing  is  lacking ;  the 
fetes,  the  balls,  the  illuminations,  the  music,  are 
but  the  banners,  the  indications,  the  hieroglyph- 
ics of  joy;  yet,  as  a  rule,  joy  is  absent,  it  alone 
has  sent  a  regret.  When  it  does  present  itself,  it 
comes  ordinarily  without  invitation  and  unan- 
nounced j  it  enters,  sans  fafon,  in  the  simplest 


144     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

manner,  often  for  the  most  trivial  reason,  and 
under  circumstances  that  are  well-nigh  insignifi- 
cant. Like  the  gold  in  Australia,  it  is  spread 
about  here  and  there  according  to  the  whim  of 
hazard,  without  law  or  rule,  generally  in  small 
particles,  and  but  seldom  in  an  appreciable  quan- 
tity." 

This  certainly  cannot  be  termed  an  enthusias- 
tic view  of  life,  nor,  for  that  matter,  is  it  intended 
to  be  so  considered.  There  was  too  much  unrea- 
soning enthusiasm,  Schopenhauer  thought,  and 
too  much  unwary  skating  over  thin  surfaces,  and 
it  was  precisely  for  this  reason  that  he  set  about 
painting  Danger  in  the  biggest  and  blackest-look- 
ing characters.  If  his  advice,  therefore,  is  not 
always  cheerful,  it  is  at  least  practical,  and  in 
any  event  no  one  can  go  far  astray  in  following 
the  monitory  finger-posts  which  he  was  the  first 
to  erect ;  the  wayfarer  who  takes  them  for  guid- 
ance may  perhaps  stand  still,  but  at  least  he  will 
not  stumble  into  any  artificial  pitfalls,  or  happen 
upon  unexpected  quagmires. 

In  treating  of  our  conduct  to  ourselves,  Scho- 
penhauer lays  much  stress  on  the  recommenda- 
tion that  such  proportion  be  preserved  between 
the  attention  which  we  give  to  the  present  and 
that  which  we  grant  to  the  future,  that  the  one 
will  in  nowise  interfere  with  the  other.  As  there 
are  many  who  live  for  the  hour  and  many  who 
live  for  the  future,  the  right  measure  is  seldom 
attained ;  but,  as  Schopenhauer  points  out,  the 
future,  like  the  past,  has  a  value  which  is  more 


The  Borderland*  of  Happiness.       145 

apparent  than  real.  It  is  the  present  that  is  act- 
ual, it  is  the  present  that  is  certain,  while  the  fu- 
ture, on  the  contrary,  usually  turns  out  in  a  man- 
ner totally  different  from  our  expectation.  The 
distance  which  "  robes  the  mountains  "  expands 
them  in  our  thoughts,  but  the  present  alone  is 
true  and  effective ;  and  as  it  is  therein  that  our 
existence  exclusively  rests,  it  should  not  only  be 
hospitably  received,  but  every  hour  that  is  free 
from  vexation  or  pain  should  be  enjoyed  to  the 
fullest  extent,  and  not  saddened  with  the  memory 
of  irrecoverable  hopes,  or  darkened  by  apprehen- 
sions of  the  morrow.  In  other  words,  let  the 
dead  past  bury  its  dead,  and  for  the  moment 
take  Seneca  for  model,  and  agree  with  him  that 
each  day  separately  is  a  separate  life.  As  for  the 
future,  it  rests  in  the  lap  of  the  gods. 

"  The  only  misfortunes  concerning  which  we 
should  alarm  ourselves  are  those  that  are  inevi- 
table ;  but  then,  after  all,  how  many  are  there  of 
this  nature  ?  Misfortunes,  broadly  considered, 
are  either  possible  and  probable,  or  else  certain, 
though  in  the  indefinite  future ;  and  if  we  bother 
ourselves  over  all  that  might  come  to  pass,  we 
would  never  enjoy  a  moment's  repose."  In  or- 
der, therefore,  that  tranquillity  may  not  be  un- 
necessarily disturbed,  Schopenhauer  advises  that 
possible  misfortunes  be  looked  upon  as  though 
they  would  never  occur,  and  inevitable  misfor- 
tunes as  though  they  were  still  far  distant. 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that  the  blind,  who  of  all 
people  are  usually  pitied  as  the  most  unfortunate, 


146     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

possess,  as  a  class,  the  calmest  and  most  con- 
tented expression.  This  phenomenon  may  serve 
as  some  corroboration  of  a  theory,  which  Scho- 
penhauer expands  at  great  length,  that  the  nar- 
rower the  circle  of  vision  the  greater  the  happi- 
ness ;  and  conversely,  the  wider  it  is  the  greater 
the  inquietude  and  torment.  It  is,  then,  in  the 
simplicity  and  uniformity  of  life  —  so  long,  of 
course,  as  it  does  not  engender  weariness  of 
mind  —  that  the  greatest  measure  of  happiness  is 
to  be  found.  Under  conditions  of  this  descrip- 
tion, which  every  poet  from  Horace  to  Joaquin 
Miller  has  more  or  less  praised,  the  burden  from 
which  life  is  inseparable  is  borne  most  lightly, 
and  existence  flows  like  a  rivulet,  without  tides 
or  waves. 

The  claims  of  society,  the  effort  to  keep  in  the 
swim,  dans  le  mouvement,  as  the  French  say,  is 
not,  of  course,  very  conducive  to  the  tranquil 
contentment  which  is  here  so  earnestly  com- 
mended. Schopenhauer  has  much  to  say  on  the 
subject.  As  a  self-constituted  recluse  he  necessa- 
rily judged  the  world,  and  as  necessarily  found  it 
wanting.  Indeed,  it  may  fairly  be  said  that  he 
held  in  utter  contempt  the  entire  machinery  of 
fashion,  and  looked  upon  the  whole  thing  as  a 
toy  for  imbeciles.  To  say  that  he  hated  it  would 
be  unjust,  for,  like  most  sensible  people,  he  held 
hatred  to  be  an  elixir  far  too  precious  to  be  wasted 
on  trivial  matters.  He  simply  took  up  society 
and  then  let  it  drop,  and  he  did  so  not  because 
it  soiled  his  gloves,  but  because  it  did  not  seem 
worth  the  holding. 


The  Borderlands  of  Happiness.       147 

Such  views  as  he  cared  to  express  on  this  sub- 
ject are  unmarked  by  any  striking  vividness  of 
originality  ;  for  the  most  part  they  are  simple, 
everyday  observations,  as  pertinent  to  Europe 
half  a  century  ago  as  to  contemporary  London 
and  New  York,  and  imply,  briefly,  that  society  is 
a  mill  of  the  conventional  which  grinds  individu- 
alities into  a  tiresome  sameness  of  sample.  In- 
dividuality was  like  a  strong-box  into  which  Scho- 
penhauer placed  all  his  valuables,  and  to  which, 
we  are  led  to  believe,  he  clung  with  all  his  might 
and  main.  Rather  than  have  it  tampered  with 
he  carried  it  off  to  a  hermitage  and  kept  it  there, 
one  might  say,  in  cotton.  It  may  be,  however, 
that  the  underlying  reason  of  the  sombre  ob- 
liqueness with  which  he  viewed  the  world  at 
large  sprang  from  a  cause  which  was  natural,  if 
commonplace ;  it  did  not  appreciate  him.  Nor 
is  this  very  surprising ;  society,  as  a  rule,  has  an 
immense  fund  of  appreciation,  which  it  lavishes 
liberally  on  ever}'  merit,  save  alone  that  of  intel- 
lectual ability ;  on  this  it  looks  askant,  or,  as 
Schopenhauer  says,  "  as  if  it  were  smuggled." 
"Furthermore,"  he  goes  on  to  say,  "good  so- 
ciety, so  called,  not  only  brings  one  in  contact 
with  a  lot  of  people  whom  he  can  neither  approve 
of  nor  like,  but  it  will  not  permit  us  to  be  our- 
selves, to  be  such  as  our  nature  demands  ;  on 
the  contrary,  it  compels  us,  that  we  may  remain 
on  the  same  diapason  with  the  rest,  to  shrivel 
up  completely,  and  even  at  times  to  appear  de- 
formed." 


148      The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

Wit  and  repartee  are  admittedly  out  of  place 
save  among  one's  peers  ;  in  ordinary  society  such 
manifestations  are  either  not  understood,  or 
looked  upon  as  dreadfully  bad  form.  For  that 
matter,  it  is  only  the  novice  who  thinks  that  bril- 
liant conversational  powers  will  serve  as  pass- 
port ;  as  a  rule,  it  does  nothing  of  the  sort ; 
rather  does  it  excite  among  the  majority  a  feeling 
nearly  akin  to  hatred,  and  which  is  all  the  more 
bitter  because  it  must  be  concealed. 

"  Ordinarily,"  Schopenhauer  says,  "  when  two 
people  are  talking  together,  so  soon  as  one  of 
them  notices  a  great  superiority  on  the  part  of 
the  other  he  tacitly  concludes,  and  without  defi- 
nite reason  for  so  doing,  that  his  own  inferiority 
has  been  noticed  by  his  companion,  for  whom  he 
immediately  conceives  a  blind  resentment,  even 
a  violent  dislike ;  nor  in  this  is  he  much  to  be 
blamed,  for  what  is  a  display  of  wit  and  judg- 
ment but  an  accusation  to  others  of  their  own 
commonplace  stupidity  and  dullness  ?  To  please 
in  society,  therefore,  one  needs  to  be  scatter- 
brained or  ignorant ;  and  it  is  precisely  those  who 
are  the  one  or  the  other,  or  even  both,  who  are 
welcome  and  well  received." 

From  Schopenhauer's  standpoint,  then,  the  so- 
ciety that  is  worth  the  trouble  of  cultivating  is 
not  such  as  is  told  of  in  the  morning  papers. 
The  ball-goers,  the  dinner-givers,  the  pleasure- 
seekers  of  every  class  and  denomination,  were  to 
him  mentally  insolvent,  and  unable  to  offer  any 
indemnity  for  the  boredom  and  fatigue  which 


The  Borderlands  of  Happiness.       149 

their  reunions  and  conversation  created.  To  be 
socially  inclined  was  to  him  irrefutable  evidence 
of  a  vacuous  mind  ;  and  with  some  of  that  grim 
humor  which  characterized  much  of  his  work,  he 
compared  the  modern  assembly  to  that  Russian 
orchestra  which,  composed  of  horns  that  have 
but  one  note  apiece,  is  harmonious  only  through 
the  exact  coincidence  of  each  instrument ;  taken 
separately,  each  one  is  appallingly  monotonous, 
and  it  is  only  in  conjunction  with  others  that 
they  amount  to  anything  at  all.  So  it  is,  he  finds, 
with  the  majority  of  people ;  individually,  they 
seem  to  have  but  one  thought,  and  are  in  conse- 
quence both  tiresome  and  sociable. 

There  is  a  tolerably  familiar  anecdote  of  Louis 
XIII.,  which  represents  that  feeble  monarch  as 
hailing  one  of  his  officers  with  the  bland  sugges- 
tion that  they  should  wile  away  the  hour  in  com- 
mon boredom  :  "  Venez,  monsieur,"  run  the  his- 
toric words,  "  allons  nous  ennuyer  ensemble ; " 
and  it  is  perhaps  this  self-same,  but  unanalyzed 
motive  which  leads  so  many  to  ease  their  weari- 
ness in  the  companionship  of  their  fellows,  for, 
after  all,  it  cannot  but  be  admitted  that  the  most 
gregarious  seek  the  presence  of  others,  and  even 
of  those  for  whom  they  care  nothing,  not  so 
much  for  the  sake  of  society  as  to  get  away  from 
themselves  and  the  dull  monotone  of  an  empty 
head. 

Such,  at  any  rate,  is  Schopenhauer's  idea ;  and 
he  is  careful,  in  pointing  to  the  retired  existence 
of  all  really  distinguished  thinkers,  to  note  that 


150     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

the  desire  for  companionship  is  not  derived  from 
a  love  of  society,  but  from  a  fear  of  solitude,  and 
that  so  soon  as  the  latter  is  mastered  there  is  no 
further  desire  to  mingle  with  the  crowd.  The 
only  society,  therefore,  that  is  worth  the  trouble 
of  cultivation  is  that  of  one's  own  self  ;  in  this 
Schopenhauer  apparently  makes  no  exception ; 
however  closely  the  bonds  of  love  or  friendship 
may  be  woven,  there  is  always  some  clash  of  tem- 
perament ;  an  echoless  shock  it  may  be,  but  to 
nerves  properly  attuned  none  the  less  unpleasant. 
In  regard  to  the  society  of  the  distinguished 
thinkers,  of  whose  conspicuous  solitude  he  makes 
constant  parade,  nothing  is  said  ;  but  it  is  per- 
haps allowable  to  suppose  that  genius,  when  it 
does  descend  from  its  lofty  seclusion,  quickly 
tires  of  giving,  giving  always,  without  return,  and 
on  its  summits  fraternizes  as  seldom  with  its 
peers  as  kings  do  with  their  equals.  In  brief, 
then,  the  sociability  of  man  is  in  an  inverse  ratio 
to  his  intellectual  value,  and  to  say  of  some  one 
"  he  is  not  at  all  sociable,"  may  be  generally 
taken  to  mean  "  he  is  a  man  of  great  ability." 

The  praises  of  solitude  have  been  written  over 
and  over  again ;  almost  all  the  essayists,  and 
most  of  the  poets,  have  expatiated  more  or  less 
volubly  on  its  charms,  but  no  one  has  entered  so 
thoroughly  into  the  core  of  the  subject  as  did 
this  spectacled  misanthrope.  Emerson  has  told 
a  quaint  little  story  of  a  friend  who  took  an  ex- 
quisite delight  in  thinking  of  the  incalculable 
number  of  places  where  he  was  not,  and  whose 


The  Borderlands  of  Happiness.       1 5 1 

idea  of  felicity  was  to  dwell  far  off  somewhere 
among  the  back  stars,  "  there  to  wear  out  ages 
in  solitude,  and  forget  memory  itself."  Had 
Schopenhauer  known  this  gentleman  he  would 
have  loved  him,  though  perhaps  at  a  distance ;  as 
it  was,  he  expressed  an  approval  that  was  well- 
nigh  rapturous  of  La  Bruyere's  well-known  axiom  : 
"  All  our  misfortunes  come  from  an  inability  to 
be  alone,"  and  at  measured  intervals  repeated 
Voltaire's  maxim  that  "  the  world  is  full  of  peo- 
ple who  are  not  worth  speaking  to."  His  own 
ideas  on  the  subject  savor  highly  of  the  epigram- 
matic. "  Solitude,"  he  says,  "  offers  a  double 
advantage  to  the  thinker  :  the  first  in  being  with 
himself,  the  second  in  not  being  with  others." 

The  love  of  solitude,  however,  cannot  be  con- 
sidered otherwise  than  as  an  acquired  taste  ;  it 
must  come  as  the  result  of  experience  and  reflec- 
tion, and  advance  with  the  development  of  the 
intellect  as  well  as  with  the  progress  of  age.  A 
child  will  cry  with  fright  if  it  be  left  alone  even 
for  a  moment ;  in  boyhood,  solitude  is  a  severe 
penance  ;  young  men  are  eminently  sociable,  and 
it  is  only  the  more  elevated  among  them  who 
from  time  to  time  wander  off  by  themselves  ;  but 
even  so,  a  day  passed  in  strict  seclusion  is  no 
easy  matter.  In  middle  age,  it  is  not  so  difficult, 
while  to  the  aged,  solitude  seems  the  natural  ele- 
ment. But  in  each  individual,  separately  consid- 
ered, the  growth  of  the  inclination  for  solitude  is 
always  in  proportion  to  the  strength  of  the  intel- 
lect, and,  according  to  Schopenhauer,  it  is  never 


152     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

thoroughly  matured  until  the  individual  becomes 
firmly  convinced  that  society  is  the  most  disa- 
greeable of  all  the  unpleasant  things  in  the 
world. 

To  this  conclusion  both  Petrarch  and  Zim- 
merman came  in  their  respective  works  on  soli- 
tude. Chamfort  says  somewhere,  very  wittily, 
"  It  is  sometimes  said  of  a  man  that  he  lives 
alone  and  does  not  care  for  society;  this  is 
very  much  the  same  as  saying  that  he  does  not 
care  for  exercise,  because  he  does  not  make 
excursions  at  night  in  the  forest  of  Bondy."  In 
short,  all  those  whom  Prometheus  has  fashioned 
from  his  finer  clay  have  brought  testimony  of 
like  purport.  To  Schopenhauer  a  desire  for  soli- 
tude was  a  sure  indication  of  aristocratic  tastes. 
"  Every  blackguard,"  he  says,  "  is  pitiably  socia- 
ble, but  true  nobility  is  detected  in  the  man  who 
finds  no  pleasure  in  the  companionship  of  others, 
and  who,  in  preferring  solitude  to  society,  gradu- 
ally acquires  the  conviction  that,  save  in  rare  ex- 
ceptions, there  is  little  choice  between  isolation 
and  vulgarity."  Angelus  Silesius,  whose  name 
has  descended  to  us  in  a  halo  of  Christian  ten- 
derness, bears  witness  to  the  truth  of  this  theory, 

"  Though  solitude  is  hard,  yet  the  refined 
Will  still  in  ev'ry  place  a  desert  find." 

It  is  especially  in  old  age,  when  one  has 
ceased  to  expect  anything  in  particular  from  the 
generality  of  mankind,  when  one  has  become 
pretty  well  satisfied  that  in  the  long  run  men  do 


The  Borderlands  of  Happiness.      153 

not  improve  on  acquaintance,  and  when  one  is 
usually  divested  of  those  illusions  which  make 
the  companionship  of  others  seem  desirable,  —  it 
is  at  this  period  that  the  taste  for  solitude,  which 
heretofore  has  demanded  a  succession  of  strug- 
gles, becomes  at  once  natural  and  matter  of  fact. 
One  feels,  then,  as  much  at  ease  therein  as  the 
fish  does  at  high  water. 

But  in  spite  of  the  advantages  of  solitude  there 
is  a  hackneyed  proverb  about  the  rose  and  the 
thorn  which  has  here  a  most  direct  application. 
In  the  same  manner  that  every  breath  of  frosty 
air  injuriously  affects  any  one  who  constantly 
keeps  to  his  own  room,  so  does  a  man's  disposi- 
tion become  so  sensitive  in  solitude  that  he  is 
vexed  and  annoyed  at  the  most  trivial  incident, 
at  a  word,  or  even  at  an  expression  of  the  coun- 
tenance. It  is  hard,  however,  to  catch  Scho- 
penhauer napping,  and  for  this  he  has  a  remedy 
which,  if  not  within  the  reach  of  all,  is  none  the 
less  efficacious.  His  recipe  is  simply  that  every 
aspirant  should  accustom  himself  to  carry  a  part 
of  his  solitude  into  society,  and  learn  to  be  alone 
even  in  a  crowd ;  in  other  words,  not  to  tell  others 
at  once  what  he  thinks,  and  not  to  pay  much  at- 
tention to  what  others  may  say ;  in  this  way  he 
will  in  a  measure  keep  himself  unaffected  by  the 
stupidities  which  must  necessarily  surge  about 
him,  and  harden  himself  to  exterior  influences. 

As  has  been  noted,  it  was  far  from  Schopen- 
hauer's intention  to  recommend  an  idle  folding 
of  the  hands.  Solitude  is  all  very  well,  but  to 


154     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

be  habitable  it  must  be  peopled  with  thoughts 
and  deeds ;  the  essence  of  life  is  movement,  and 
in  inaction  it  is  a  most  difficult  thing  to  be  tran- 
quil. Indeed,  the  most  thoughtless  must  do  some- 
thing, even  if  that  something  consist  but  in  a  tat- 
too beaten  on  the  window-pane.  Schopenhauer's 
words,  however,  are  presumably  not  addressed  to 
thoughtless  people.  To  struggle  and  cope  is,  he 
says,  as  much  of  a  necessity  to  man  as  burrowing 
is  to  the  mole.  To  conquer  resistance  consti- 
tutes the  fullness  of  human  delight,  and  whether 
the  obstacles  are  of  a  material  nature,  as  in  ac- 
tion and  exercise,  or  purely  mental,  as  in  study 
and  research,  it  is  the  combat  and  the  victory 
that  bring  happiness  with  them. 

In  treating  of  our  conduct  to  others,  Schopen- 
hauer seems  always  to  be  peering  down  and 
sounding  bottom  in  unfathomed  depths  of  the 
human  heart,  and  to  be  taking  measure  of  those 
crevices  and  sinuosities  for  which  Balzac  and  La 
Rochefoucauld,  with  all  their  equipment  of  bit- 
terness, possessed  no  adequate  compass.  The 
result  of  his  soundings  and  measurements  is  a 
lesson  of  circumspection  and  indulgence,  of  which 
the  first  stands  as  guarantee  against  prejudice, 
and  the  second  as  shelter  from  quarrels  and  dis- 
putes. Machiavelli  warned  every  one  to  as 
carefully  avoid  an  injury  to  the  self-esteem  of 
an  inferior  as  one  would  the  commission  of  a 
crime.  Schopenhauer  goes  even  further  ;  his 
theory  is  that  whoever  is  obliged  to  live  among 
his  fellows  should  never  repulse  any  one,  how- 


The  Borderlands  of  Happiness.      155 

ever  pitiful,  wicked,  or  ridiculous  his  character 
may  be  ;  on  the  contrary,  he  should  accept  him 
as  something  immutable,  and  consider  that  there 
must  necessarily  be  some  one  of  that  class  too. 
If  he  does  otherwise  he  commits  not  only  an  im- 
prudence, but  provokes  a  life-long  enmity,  for, 
after  all,  no  one  can  modify  his  own  character, 
and  if  a  man  is  condemned  unreservedly  there 
is,  of  necessity,  nothing  left  for  him  to  do  but  to 
declare  war  to  the  knife.  It  is  for  this  reason 
that  when  one  wishes,  or  is  obliged  to  live  among 
his  fellow-creatures,  it  becomes  necessary  to  let 
each  one  work  out  his  own  nature  and  accept 
each  individual  as  he  stands ;  the  most  that  can 
be  done  is  to  attempt  to  utilize  the  qualities 
and  dispositions  of  each,  so  far  as  they  may  be 
adaptable,  but  in  no  case  is  a  man  to  be  con- 
demned purely  and  simply  for  what  he  is.  This 
is  the  true  signification  of  the  dictum,  Live  and 
let  live. 

Meanwhile,  in  learning  how  to  treat  others  it 
will  not  come  amiss,  Schopenhauer  goes  on  to  say, 
to  exercise  a  little  patience  on  any  of  the  inani- 
mate objects  which  in  virtue  of  some  physical  or 
mechanical  necessity  obstinately  annoy  and  thwart 
us  every  day ;  for  in  so  doing  we  learn  to  bestow 
on  our  fellows  the  patience  already  acquired,  and 
in  this  manner  become  accustomed  to  the  thought 
that  they,  too,  whenever  they  form  an  obstacle  to 
our  wishes,  do  so  because  they  cannot  help  it,  in 
virtue  of  a  natural  law  which  is  as  rigorous  as 
that  which  acts  on  inanimate  things,  and  because 


156     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment, 

it  is  as  absurd  to  get  angry  with  them  as  to  be  an- 
noyed at  the  stone  which  slips  between  our  feet. 

But  in  all  this  Schopenhauer  is  far  from  rec- 
ommending any  over-indulgence  or  excess  of 
amiability,  for  he  readily  recognizes  that  the  ma- 
jority of  people  are  like  children,  who  become 
pert  as  soon  as  they  are  spoiled.  Refuse  a  loan 
to  a  friend,  he  says,  and  you  will  not  lose  him  as 
readily  as  you  would  if  you  had  advanced  the 
money ;  in  the  same  manner  a  trace  of  haughti- 
ness and  indifference  on  your  part  will  generally 
quell  any  of  those  preliminary  symptoms  of  ar- 
rogance that  follow  upon  too  much  kindness.  In- 
deed, it  is  the  idea  that  one  has  need  of  them 
that  few  men  can  bear,  —  they  become  presump- 
tuous at  once  ;  and  it  is  for  this  reason  that 
there  are  so  few  with  whom  one  can  be  really  in- 
timate. 

Most  especially  should  we  avoid  any  familiar- 
ity with  vulgar  natures.  "  If  by  chance  an  inferior 
imagines  for  a  moment  that  I  have  more  need  of 
him  than  he  has  of  me,  he  will  suddenly  act  as 
though  I  had  stolen  something  from  him,  and 
hurry  to  revenge  himself  and  get  his  property 
back."  In  brief,  the  only  way  in  which  superior- 
ity can  be  maintained  is  in  letting  others  see  that 
we  have  no  need  of  them  at  all.  Moreover,  Scho- 
penhauer notes,  it  is  a  good  plan  to  appear  a 
trifle  disdainful  from  time  to  time  ;  such  an  atti- 
tude has  a  strengthening  effect  on  friendship  : 
"  Chi  non  istima,  vien  stimato  "  (he  who  shows 
no  respect  is  respected  himself)  runs  the  saga- 


The  Borderlands  of  Happiness.       157 

cious  Italian  proverb.  But  above  all,  if  any  one 
does  possess  a  high  value  in  our  eyes  it  should 
be  hidden  from  him  as  a  sin.  This  advice  is  not 
particularly  exhilarating,  but  it  is  sound.  Too 
much  kindness  disagrees  with  dogs,  to  say  noth- 
ing of  men. 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that  the  more  intellectual 
a  man  is  the  more  easily  he  is  deceived.  There 
seems  to  be  something  almost  incompatible  be- 
tween a  high  degree  of  culture  and  an  extended 
knowledge  of  men  and  things,  whereas,  in  the 
case  of  people  of  ordinary  calibre,  a  lack  of  ex- 
perience will  not  necessarily  hinder  them  from 
properly  conducting  their  affairs ;  they  possess, 
as  it  were,  an  a  priori  knowledge  which  is  fur- 
nished to  them  by  their  own  nature,  and  it  is  pre- 
cisely the  absence  of  this  knowledge  that  causes 
the  mistakes  of  the  more  refined.  Even  when  a 
man  has  learned  from  the  teaching  of  others  and 
through  his  own  experience  just  what  he  may  ex- 
pect from  men  in  general,  even  when  he  is  thor- 
oughly convinced  that  five  sixths  of  them  are  so 
constituted  that  it  is  better  for  him  to  have  noth- 
ing at  all  to  do  with  them,  even  then,  his  knowl- 
edge is  insufficient  to  preserve  him  from  many 
false  calculations.  A  presumable  wiseacre,  for 
instance,  may  accidentally  be  drawn  into  the  so- 
ciety of  people  with  whom  he  is  unacquainted, 
and  be  astonished  to  find  that  in  conversation 
and  manners  they  are  sensible,  loyal,  and  sin- 
cere, and,  perhaps,  intelligent  and  witty.  In  that 
case,  Schopenhauer  warns  him  to  keep  well  on 


1 5  8     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

his  guard,  for  the  reason  that  Nature  is  entirely 
unlike  the  dramaturge  who,  when  he  wishes  to 
create  a  scoundrel  or  a  simpleton,  sets  about  it 
so  awkwardly  that  he  seems  to  be  standing  be- 
hind each  character  in  turn,  and  in  disavowing 
their  gestures  and  words  to  be  warning  the  audi- 
ence that  one  is  a  ruffian  and  the  other  a  fool, 
and  that  no  one  is  to  believe  a  word  that  they 
say.  It  is  not  at  all  in  this  way  that  Nature  acts  : 
her  method  is  that  of  Shakespeare  and  Goethe, 
in  whose  plays  each  person,  be  he  the  Devil  him- 
self, speaks  as  he  ought  to,  and  is  conceived  so 
realistically  that  he  attracts  and  commands  atten- 
tion. To  think,  then,  that  the  Devil  goes  about 
with  horns,  and  the  fool  with  bells,  is  to  lay  one's 
self  open  to  a  continual  deception,  for,  as  a  rule, 
our  moralist  says,  men  behave  very  much  like  the 
moon  or  like  the  hunchback  ;  they  show  only  one 
side,  and  even  then  they  have  a  peculiar  talent 
for  making  up  their  faces  into  a  species  of  mask, 
which  exactly  represents  what  they  ought  to  be, 
and  this  they  assume  whenever  they  wish  to  be 
well  received.  Put  not  your  trust  in  princes,  say 
some  ;  Schopenhauer's  advice  is,  Put  not  your 
trust  in  masks  ;  and  to  substantiate  his  warning 
he  quotes  an  old  proverb,  which  holds  that  no 
matter  how  vicious  a  dog  may  be  he  can  still  wag 
his  tail. 

To  all  these  rules  and  suggestions  there  are,  of 
course,  exceptions ;  there  are  even  exceptions  that 
are  incommensurably  great,  for  the  difference  be- 
tween individuals  is  gigantic,  but  taken  as  a  whole, 


The  Borderlands  of  Happiness.      1 59 

Schopenhauer  condemns  the  world  as  irreclaim- 
ably  bad,  and  it  may  be  added  that  one  does  not 
need  to  be  a  professional  pessimist  to  arrive  at 
very  nearly  the  same  conclusion.  But  beyond 
these  broad  recommendations  a  few  others  are 
given  on  our  proper  bearing  and  attitude  to  the 
world  at  large,  and  which,  summed  up  in  his  own 
words,  amount,  in  brief,  to  the  teaching  that  one 
half  of  all  wisdom  consists  in  neither  loving  nor 
hating,  and  the  other  half  in  saying  nothing  and 
believing  nothing. 

Lamennais  exclaimed  one  day,  "  My  soul  was 
born  with  a  sore,"  and  to  some  it  may  perhaps 
seem  that  on  Schopenhauer's  heart  an  ulcer  had 
battened  during  each  of  the  seventy  years  that 
formed  his  life.  Certainly  he  has  appeared  to 
force  the  note  many  times,  but  it  is  permissible 
to  doubt  that  he  prepared  a  single  paragraph  in 
which  he  expressed  himself  otherwise  than  as 
he  really  thought.  In  his  pessimism  there  is  no 
pose  and  as  little  affectation ;  he  wrote  only  what 
he  felt  to  be  true,  and  he  did  so  with  a  cheerful 
indifference  to  approval  or  dislike  ;  his  position 
was  simply  that  of  a  notary  drawing  up  provisos 
and  conditions  in  strict  accord  with  the  statutes 
of  life  of  which  he  stood  as  witness.  His  mother, 
who  had  little  cause  to  come  forward  as  an  eulo- 
gist, paid  him  —  years  after  their  separation  — 
this  one  sincere  tribute  :  "With  all  his  vagaries," 
she  said,  "  I  have  never  known  my  son  to  tell 
a  lie."  Other  encomiums  have,  of  course,  been 
passed  upon  him,  but  it  is  impossible  to  imagine 


160     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment, 

one  more  glorious  than  this.  Over  and  above 
his  disregard  of  sham  and  falsehood,  beyond  his 
theory  of  force  and  the  seductions  of  his  ethics, 
Schopenhauer  is  chiefly  remarkable  in  this :  that 
he  was  the  first  to  detect  and  logically  explain 
that  universal  nausea  which,  circulating  from  one 
end  of  Europe  to  the  other,  presents  those  symp- 
toms of  melancholy  and  disillusion  which,  patent 
to  every  observer,  are  indubitably  born  of  the  in- 
sufficiencies of  modern  civilization. 

Where,  then,  it  may  be  asked,  for  this  malady 
of  the  refined,  are  the  borderlands  of  happiness 
to  be  found  ?  From  the  standpoint  of  this  teacher 
the  answer  is  that  they  are  discoverable  simply 
and  solely  in  an  unobtrusive  culture  of  self,  in  a 
withdrawal  from  every  aggressive  influence,  and 
above  all  in  a  supreme  indifference  which,  culpa- 
ble though  alluring,  permits  the  neophyte  to  de- 
claim with  Baudelaire,  — 

"  Resigne-toi,  mon  cceur,  dors  ton  sommeil  de  brute." 


The  foregoing  attempt  to  winnow  some  of  the 
finer  fibres  of  thought  from  the  six  volumes 
which  form  the  complete  edition  of  Schopen- 
hauer's works  leaves  admittedly  much  to  be  de- 
sired. There  has  been,  as  the  phrase  goes,  an 
cmbarras  des  richesses,  and  in  consequence  much 
attendant  indecision  as  to  the  choice  to  be  made 
of  different  yet  equally  interesting  topics.  The 
passages  that  have  been  selected  and  annotated 


The  Borderlands  of  Happiness.       161 

in  this  and  in  the  preceding  chapter  have  been, 
it  may  be  explained,  so  selected,  because  they 
seemed,  when  arranged  with  some  attempt  at 
orderly  sequence,  to  present  in  the  fewest  pos- 
sible words  the  essence  of  the  main  idea  which 
runs  through  the  entire  philosophy,  and  which  in 
the  absence  of  some  such  arrangement  demands 
a  concentration  more  prolonged  than  is  usually 
at  the  disposal  of  the  ordinary  reader.  Those 
who  are  already  acquainted  with  Schopenhauer's 
works,  and  who  may  do  the  present  writer  the 
honor  of  reading  this  exposition,  will  perhaps  ob- 
ject to  it  on  the  ground  that  it  does  not  enter 
sufficiently  into  the  scientific  side  of  the  doctrine, 
and  through  this  neglect  leaves  the  reader  in  the 
dark  as  to  its  true  value.  To  this  presumable 
objection  the  writer  begs  leave  to  make  answer 
that  the  scientific  aspect  of  the  doctrine  has  been 
so  exhaustively  treated  by  others  that  it  has 
seemed  to  him  a  waste  of  time  to  enter  into  any 
further  consideration  of  a  subject  whose  true 
value,  in  spite  of  the  numberless  controversies 
and  arguments  which  it  continues  to  create,  still 
remains  undetermined.  Moreover,  as  will  have 
been  readily  seen,  the  foregoing  pages  have  in 
no  sense  been  addressed  to  the  scientist,  and 
that  for  the  reason  that  exact  information  is  only 
obtainable  from  the  philosophy  itself,  or  from 
such  a  complete  and,  therefore,  voluminous  anal- 
ysis as  would  be  out  of  place  in  a  treatise  of  this 
description.  The  aim  of  these  chapters  is  but  to 
draw  in  outline  the  principal  features  of  this  doc- 


162     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

trine,  and  in  so  doing  to  present  in  the  absence 
of  complete  translations  a  little  of  that  vigor  and 
color  which  has  raised  the  original  to  the  promi- 
nent position  it  holds  among  the  foremost  works 
of  modern  thought.  No  attempt  at  the  polem- 
ical has  been  made,  and  this  for  the  reason  that 
it  is  seldom  advisable  to  attack  the  truth ;  the 
notations  and  criticisms  which  have  been  offered 
have  been  prepared,  not  with  the  wish  to  contro- 
vert, but  rather  with  the  hope  that  they  might 
serve  to  a  clearer  understanding  of  the  whole 
philosophy. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE   GREAT   QUIETUS. 

IT  is  related  of  Schopenhauer  that  he  was  in 
the  habit  of  putting  down  a  gold  piece  on  the 
table  d'hote  where  he  dined,  and  of  taking  it  up 
again  when  the  dinner  was  ended.  This  gold 
piece,  he  explained  to  his  Boswell,  was  for  the 
waiter  the  first  time  that  any  one  of  the  differ- 
ent officers,  who  frequented  the  dining-room,  was 
heard  discussing  a  loftier  topic  than  that  which 
is  circled  in  wine,  woman,  and  song.  As  the 
story  runs,  no  occasion  ever  presented  itself  in 
which  he  could  in  this  manner  express  his  pleas- 
ure and  contentment ;  but  had  he  lived  long 
enough  to  meet  Lieutenant  Von  Hartmann  there 
is  little  doubt  that  the  gold  piece  would  have 
formed  an  immediate  and  rightful  part  of  the 
waiter's  perquisites. 

This  gentleman,  who  is  now  no  longer  an  offi- 
cer, but  simply  a  thinker  and  a  man  of  letters, 
may,  in  many  respects,  be  regarded  as  Schopen- 
hauer's direct  descendant.  To  the  world  at  large 
very  little  concerning  him  is  known,  and  that  lit- 
tle is  contained  in  a  modest  autobiography  which 
appeared  a  few  years  ago,  and  to  which  his  pub- 
fisher  has  since  added  a  supplement. 


164     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

The  meagre  details  that  are  furnished  therein 
amount,  in  brief,  to  this  :  Eduard  von  Hartmann 
was  born  in  1842,  in  Berlin,  in  which  city  he 
passed  an  uneventful  boyhood.  The  school  which 
he  attended,  and  which  like  most  other  schools 
forced  the  pupils  to  master  a  quantity  of  subjects 
whose  usefulness  may  be  questioned,  brought  him 
into  an  almost  open  revolt  against  a  system  of 
education  which,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  is  noth- 
ing more  than  a  pure  waste  of  time.  On  leaving 
the  gymnasium  he  decided,  for  reasons  which  to 
the  average  German  must  seem  fastastic,  to  enter 
the  military  service  at  once  instead  of  passing 
the  usual  semesters  at  a  university.  To  this  bud- 
ding pessimist  student  life  seemed  to  offer  but 
dull  variations  between  commonplaceness  and 
vulgarity :  to  listen  or  not  to  listen  to  sundry 
poorly  expressed  lectures  by  day,  to  engulf  at 
night  a  certain  quantity  of  beer  in  stone  meas- 
ures, and  to  diversify  these  occupations  in  re- 
ceiving slashes  on  the  cheek-bone,  or  in  affording 
amusement  to  the  Hebes  of  Prussian  restaurants, 
was  not  to  him  the  life  that  was  called  ideal. 
Very  wisely,  then,  and  in  accordance  with  the 
example  which  his  father  had  already  given,  he 
chose  in  a  military  career  a  profession  most  apt 
to  satisfy  those  inclinations  of  the  scientist  and 
of  the  artist  which  had  already 'begun  to  exert 
an  influence  upon  him. 

In  the  year  1858  Herr  von  Hartmann  entered 
the  crack  artillery  regiment  of  Berlin  as  volun- 
teer. He  then  passed  three  years  at  the  artil- 


The  Great  Quietus.  165 

lery  school,  intermingling  the  scientific  studies  of 
his  profession  with  artistic  and  philosophic  re- 
searches, and  frequenting  meanwhile  the  refined 
society  to  which  his  family  belonged.  About  this 
time  a  rheumatic  affection,  which  had  first  de- 
clared itself  toward  the  close  of  his  school-days, 
became  complicated  with  a  fracture  of  some  of 
the  delicate  machinery  of  the  knee.  The  injury 
was  both  painful  and  incurable,  and  in  1864110 
was  obliged  to  resign  his  position,  and  thereupon 
left  the  army  with  the  grade  of  first  lieutenant. 
These  latter  details  are  given  by  way  of  coun- 
terbalance to  the  calumnies  of  his  enemies,  who, 
in  explaining  his  pessimism  by  the  state  of  his 
health,  — which  they  insinuate  was  brought  about 
by  excessive  and  unusual  debauchery,  —  have  in 
one  way  and  another  managed  to  vituperate  his 
chief  work  into  nine  editions. 

On  leaving  the  army  he  sought  a  career  first 
as  painter  and  then  as  musician  ;  it  did  not  take 
him  long,  however,  to  discover  that  his  vocation 
was  not  such  as  is  found  in  purely  artistic  pur- 
suits ;  "  the  bankruptcy  of  all  my  ambitions,"  he 
says,  "  was  complete  ;  there  remained  to  me  but 
one  thing,  and  that  was  thought."  It  was  from 
thought,  then,  that  he  demanded  a  consolation 
and  an  employment,  and  turning  to  metaphysics 
he  began  at  once  to  plan  his  "  Philosophy  of  the 
Unconscious."  Meanwhile,  for  his  own  distrac- 
tion and  instruction  he  had  written  a  few  essays, 
of  which  but  one  was  destined  to  see  the  light 
of  day.  This  monograph,  "  Die  dialektische  Me- 


1 66     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

thode,"  was  so  favorably  viewed  at  Rostock,  that 
he  received  therefrom  the  degree  and  title  of 
Doctor  of  Philosophy. 

"  The  Philosophy  of  the  Unconscious,"  when 
completed,  remained  a  year  in  his  closet,  and 
was  only  published  in  1868,  owing  to  an  acci- 
dental meeting  with  an  intelligent  publisher.  Be- 
fore, as  since,  the  appearance  and  success  of  this 
work,  which  is  very  generally  considered  as  the 
chief  philosophical  event  of  the  last  two  decades, 
Dr.  von  Hartmann  has  lived  at  Berlin,  where  he 
endeavors  in  every-day  life  to  prove  the  practi- 
cal value  of  evolutionary  pessimism,  which  it  is 
his  wish  to  substitute  for  the  indifferentism  and 
quietist  doctrines  of  Schopenhauer. 

Personally,  Dr.  von  Hartmann  is  a  very  at- 
tractive individual,  and  his  attractiveness  is  in- 
creased by  the  fact  that  there  is  nothing  common- 
place, and  at  the  same  time  nothing  affected 
about  him.  When  I  called  at  his  house,  I  found 
him  coiled  up  in  a  rug  on  one  of  those  long  chairs 
that  are  familiar  to  every  ocean  traveler.  My  first 
impression  was  that  I  was  in  the  presence  of  a 
giant ;  and  as  the  Berlinese  as  a  race  are  notori- 
ously tall,  I  was  only  surprised  at  the  great  size 
of  his  head,  which  differed  singularly  from  that 
of  the  ordinary  Prussian.  His  hair  was  brushed 
back  from  his  forehead  in  the  manner  popularly 
termed  a  la  Russe,  but  which  is  more  noticeable 
in  Vienna  than  in  St.  Petersburg  ;  his  eyes,  which 
were  large  and  luminous,  possessed  an  expression 
of  such  indulgence  as  would  put  the  most  timid 


The  Great  Quietus.  167 

visitor  at  ease.  Owing  partly  to  the  arrangement 
of  his  hair,  his  forehead  seemed  to  me  to  be  the 
most  expansive  that  I  had  ever  seen ;  the  lower 
part  of  his  face  was  hidden  in  a  beard  which  de- 
scended very  nearly  to  his  waist,  while  as  for  his 
moustache,  it  is,  I  think,  the  longest  in  meta- 
physics. In  some  way  or  another  I  had  gotten 
to  believe  that  it  was  part  of  the  professional 
philosopher  to  be  both  self-contained  and  ab- 
sent-minded ;  I  always  pictured  him  as  a  class 
as  wearing  spectacles  far  down  on  the  nose,  as 
being  somewhat  snuffy,  and  carelessly  tired  in 
loose  and  shabby  dressing-gown.  I  can  give  no 
reason  for  this  fancy  of  mine  other  than  that  it 
is  one  of  those  pictures  which  we  all  draw  of 
people  and  places  that  we  have  not  seen.  If  I 
remember  rightly,  Mr.  Sala  said  that  he  imagined 
Leipzig  to  be  a  city  of  very  squat  houses,  in  which 
dwelt  little  girls  in  blue  skirts,  and  this  until  he 
got  there  and  found  that  it  was  precisely  like  any 
other  of  its  kind. 

As  a  child,  and  indeed  until  very  lately,  I  in- 
variably thought  of  Hungary  as  having  red  roads, 
bordered  by  crimson  houses  and  bluffs  of  green, 
while  all  about  I  saw  in  fancy  splendid  horses 
prancing  in  rich  caparisons ;  but,  as  any  traveler 
will  admit,  Hungary,  in  point  of  natural  effects, 
is  as  humdrum  as  Connecticut ;  for  real  color,  I 
suppose  one  must  go  to  Japan,  and  yet  there  are 
many  who  have  done  so  and  then  returned  ut- 
terly disillusioned.  Dr.  von  Hartmann  took  away 
my  illusion  about  the  philosopher  ;  he  had  a  rug, 


1 68     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

it  is  true,  but  no  dressing-gown,  or  at  least  not 
one  which  was  visible,  and  there  was  nothing  of 
the  careless  mien  and  abstracted  attitudes  which 
I  had  expected ;  to  use  a  current  phrase,  he  was 
very  wide  awake,  and  I  may  add  that  to  one  who 
has  lived  among  Germans  he  seemed  refreshingly 
hospitable  and  graciously  courteous. 

Even  in  its  most  pleasant  season,  Berlin  is  not 
a  pleasant  city ;  a  lounge  of  but  half  an  hour  on 
the  Unter  den  Linden  results  through  uncon- 
scious imitation  in  an  enforced  quickstep ;  to  be- 
gin with,  there  are  too  many  big  houses,  and  then 
there  are  too  many  big  soldiers  ;  and  while  the 
soldiers  present  to  the  stranger  an  appearance  of 
arrogant  hostility,  the  houses,  not  to  be  outdone, 
try  to  look  as  much  like  the  soldiers  as  possible, 
and  loom  up  in  alert  unbending  aggressiveness  ; 
indeed,  I  have  now  in  my  mind  a  certain  street 
which,  when  I  looked  down  it,  almost  got  up 
and  threatened  me.  I  experienced,  therefore,  a 
subtle  pleasure  on  discovering  that  out  of  the 
whole  of  rigid  Berlin  Dr.  von  Hartmann  had 
chosen  his  residence  in  the  most  unsoldierly,  and 
for  that  reason  the  most  attractive  part ;  and  it 
was  to  this  quarter  of  the  city  that  I  went  to  visit 
the  man  who,  in  spite  of  certain  vagaries  of 
thought,  may  be  considered  as  Germany's  first 
thinker.  When  he  had  disentangled  himself  from 
the  folds  of  his  rug,  the  impression  which  had 
been  produced  by  the  size  of  his  head  and  the 
breadth  of  his  shoulders  vanished  entirely.  I 
thought  for  the  moment  of  the  quaint  myths  of 


The  Great  Quietus.  169 

the  earlier  Teutons,  of  the  gnomes  and  kobolds, 
for  Dr.  von  Hartmann,  while  massive  in  head 
and  shoulders,  is  yet  short  and  undersized,  and 
the  suggestion  of  the  Rhine  legends  which  his 
appearance  caused  was  heightened  by  the  strange 
effect  produced  by  the  luxuriance  of  his  beard 
and  moustache. 

He  had  barely  spoken,  however,  before  I  rec- 
ognized in  him  not  only  the  man  of  the  world, 
which  goes  without  the  telling,  but  the  gentle- 
man, and,  in  a  moment,  the  thinker.  Stendhal 
says  somewhere,  in  speaking  of  German,  that  it 
took  him  "  two  whole  years  to  forget  the  beastly 
language."  Stendhal  was  what  is  termed  nowa- 
days an  impressionist,  and  his  expression  may 
perhaps  on  that  account  be  excused ;  in  any 
event  German  is  decidedly  an  unpleasant  tongue  ; 
it  is  very  rich,  rich  even  to  exuberance,  and  when 
it  is  well  handled  it  is  to  the  initiate  delightful 
in  many  respects  ;  but  to  the  Latin,  and  the  aver- 
age Anglo-Saxon,  it  is  terribly  tortuous,  and  most 
easy  to  lose  one's  way  in.  I  had  hoped,  there- 
fore, that  I  might  be  allowed  to  talk  with  Dr. 
von  Hartmann  in  some  more  flowing  form  of 
speech,  but  as  he  preferred  German,  it  was  not, 
of  course,  my  place  to  rebel,  and  I  soon  found 
that  I  had  nothing  to  regret.  I  have  had  in  the 
Fatherland  the  privilege  of  hearing  some  very  ac- 
complished actors,  and  I  have  also  sat  beneath 
some  very  eloquent  speakers,  but  the  amplitude 
and  resources  of  the  German  language  were  first 
made  clear  to  me  by  this  gentleman.  When  he 


170     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

spoke,  I  may  say,  without  exaggeration,  that  his 
words  seemed  less  like  figures  of  speech  than 
evocations  of  pictures.  I  had  puzzled  for  some 
time  over  a  particular  point  in  his  teaching,  and 
when  I  told  him  of  my  difficulty  he  drew  down 
before  me  a  series  of  illustrations  and  examples, 
which  were  as  well  defined  as  though  they  formed 
a  panorama  on  the  wall ;  and  therewithal  was 
such  a  fluency  of  verb,  such  a  precision  of  adjec- 
tive, and  such  a  nicety  of  accent,  that  for  the  first 
and  only  time  I  loved  the  German  language. 

Dr.  von  Hartmann  is  in  no  sense  a  misan- 
thrope. He  leads  a  quiet  and  easy  life,  demon- 
strating by  his  own  example  that  pessimism  is 
not  a  gospel  of  desolation.  Personally,  he  has 
had  many  grave  misfortunes  ;  he  has  suffered  in 
health,  in  name,  and  in  purse,  he  has  lost  many 
who  were  most  dear  to  him,  but  his  laugh  is  as 
prompt  and  as  frank  as  a  boy's.  At  the  head  of 
his  table  sits  a  gracious  and  charming  woman,  his 
children  are  rich  in  strength  and  spirits,  and  an 
observer  lately  said  of  him  and  his  family,  "  If 
you  wish  to  see  happy  and  contented  faces,  go 
call  on  the  Hartmanns." 

Beyond  writing  a  dozen  or  more  monographs, 
and  dissertations  on  philosophical  subjects,  Dr. 
von  Hartmann  has  also  charmed  the  public  with 
two  elaborate  and  well-conceived  poems.  His 
chief  claim  to  recognition,  however,  and  the  one 
which  has  placed  him  at  the  head  of  contempo- 
rary metaphysics,  is  the  work  already  mentioned, 
in  which,  somewhat  after  the  manner  of  his  pre- 


The  Great  Quietus.  171 

decessor,  and  yet  with  a  diffuseness  of  argument 
which  had  no  part  in  Schopenhauer's  system,  he 
reduces  the  motor  forces  of  the  universe  to  a  dual 
principle  which  he  terms  the  Unbewussten,  or  the 
Unconscious. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  enter  into  any  minute  ex- 
amination of  this  theory  of  his,  in  which,  with  a 
juggle  of  fancies  and  facts,  he  tries  to  reconcile 
the  teaching  of  Hegel  with  that  of  Schopenhauer, 
for,  however  it  may  be  considered,  it  is  in  any 
event  but  loosely  connected  with  that  part  of  his 
philosophy  which  treats  of  the  matter  in  hand. 

It  will  be  sufficient  for  the  understanding  of 
what  is  to  follow,  to  note  simply  that  after  exam- 
ining the  forms  of  phenomenal  existence,  mat- 
ter, life  organic  and  inorganic,  humanity,  and  so 
on,  he  presents  the  Unconscious  as  the  One-in- 
all,  the  Universal  soul,  from  which,  through  deter- 
mined laws,  the  multiplicity  of  individuals  and 
characters  is  derived.  This  one-in-all  is  sover- 
eignly wise,  and  the  world  is  admirable  in  every 
respect ;  but  while  he  argues  in  this  way  that  the 
world  is  the  best  one  possible,  he  has  no  difficulty 
in  showing  that  life  itself  is  irreclaimably  misera- 
ble. 

The  originality  of  his  system  consists  in  a  the- 
ory of  optimistic  evolution  as  counterbalanced  by 
a  pessimistic  analysis  of  life,  and  also  in  the  man- 
ner in  which,  with  a  glut  of  curious  argument,  he 
concludes  that  as  the  world's  progressus  does  not 
tend  to  either  universal  or  even  individual  hap- 
piness, the  great  aim  of  science  should  be  to 


172     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

emancipate  man  from  the  love  of  life,  and  in  this 
wise  lead  the  world  back  to  chaos. 

The  main  idea  runs  somewhat  as  follows.  The 
interest  of  the  Unconscious  is  opposed  to  our 
own  ;  it  would  be  to  our  advantage  not  to  live,  it 
is  to  the  advantage  of  the  Unconscious  that  we 
should  do  so,  and  that  others  should  be  brought 
into  existence  through  us.  The  Unconscious, 
therefore,  in  the  furtherment  of  its  aims,  has  sur- 
rounded man  with  such  illusions  as  are  capable 
of  deluding  him  into  the  belief  that  life  is  a 
pleasant  thing,  well  worth  the  living.  The  in- 
stincts that  are  within  us  are  but  the  different 
forms  beneath  which  this  unreasoning  desire  to 
live  is  at  work,  and  with  which  the  Unconscious 
inspires  man  and  moulds  him  to  its  profit.  Hence 
the  energy  so  foolishly  expended  for  the  protec- 
tion of  an  existence  which  is  but  the  right  to 
suffer,  hence  the  erroneous  idea  which  is  formed 
of  the  pain  and  pleasure  derivable  from  life,  and 
hence  the  modification  of  past  disenchantments 
through  the  influence  of  fresh  and  newer  hopes. 

With  regard  to  happiness,  there  are,  accord- 
ing to  Hartmann,  three  periods  or  forms  of 
illusion,  from  all  of  which  the  world  must  be 
thoroughly  freed  before  the  great  aim  of  science 
can  be  attained.  The  first  of  these  illusions  con- 
sists in  the  idea  that  under  certain  circumstances 
happiness  is  now  obtainable  on  earth ;  the  sec- 
ond, in  the  belief  that  happiness  is  realizable  in 
a  future  state  ;  and  the  third,  in  the  opinion  that 
happiness  will  be  discovered  in  the  march  of 
progress  through  the  coming  centuries. 


The  Great  Quietus.  173 

Of  these  three  ideas,  the  first  has  for  some 
time  past  been  recognized  by  many  as  a  chimera. 
In  certain  quarters  the  decomposition  of  the  sec- 
ond has  already  begun,  but  the  belief  in  the  real- 
ity of  the  third  is  unquestionably  the  paramount 
conviction  of  the  present  century.  When  each 
of  these  three  illusions  has  been  utterly  routed 
and  universally  done  away  with,  then,  Hartmann 
considers,  the  world  will  be  ripe  for  its  great  qui- 
etus. 

The  first  of  these  three  forms  is,  of  course,  the 
most  tenacious  ;  indeed,  it  is  an  incontestible 
fact  that  man,  even  when  miserable,  clings  to 
life,  and  loves  it  not  only  when  there  is  some 
vague  hope  of  a  brighter  future,  but  even  under 
its  most  distressing  conditions.  It  is,  therefore, 
against  this  illusion  that  pessimism,  to  be  suc- 
cessful, must  rain  the  hardest  blows. 

The  views  of  many  eminent  writers  on  this 
subject  have  already  been  expressed  in  the  course 
of  these  pages,  but  their  views,  while  in  a  meas- 
ure important,  should  nevertheless  be  received 
with  a  certain  amount  of  caution,  for  they  ema- 
nate from  superior  minds,  in  which  melancholy 
as  the  attribute  of  genius  constantly  presides. 

Let  us  imagine,  then,  with  Hartmann,  a  man 
who  is  not  a  genius,  but  simply  a  man  of  ordinary 
culture,  enjoying  the  advantages  of  an  enviable 
position  ;  a  man  who  is  neither  wearied  by  pleas- 
ure nor  oppressed  by  exceptional  misfortunes  ;  in 
brief,  a  man  capable  of  comparing  the  advantages 
which  he  enjoys  with  the  disadvantages  of  infe- 


174     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

rior  members  of  society ;  let  us  suppose  that 
Death  comes  to  this  man  and  speaks  somewhat 
as  follows :  "  Your  hour  is  at  hand ;  it  remains 
with  you,  however,  to  live  at  once  a  new  life, 
with  the  past  entirely  effaced,  or  to  accept  the 
grave  as  it  is." 

There  can  be  little  doubt,  if  this  hypothetical 
individual  has  not  lived  carelessly  and  thought- 
lessly, and  does  not  permit  his  judgment  to  be 
biased  by  the  desire  for  life  at  any  price,  that  he 
would  choose  death  in  preference  to  another  ex- 
istence, in  which  he  would  be  assured  of  none  of 
the  favorable  conditions  which  he  had  hitherto 
enjoyed.  He  will  recommence  his  own  life,  per- 
haps, but  no  other  of  an  inferior  grade. 

This  choice,  however,  would  be  that  of  an  in- 
telligent man,  and  might  be  objected  to  on  a 
ground  not  dissimilar  to  the  one  already  advanced 
against  the  judgments  of  genius.  But  let  us  fol- 
low Hartmann  still  further,  and  in  descending 
the  spiral  of  humanity  put  the  same  question  to 
every  one  we  meet ;  let  us  take,  for  instance,  a 
woodcutter,  a  Hottentot,  or  an  orang-outang,  and 
ask  of  each  which  he  prefers,  death,  or  a  new  ex- 
istence in  the  body  of  a  hippopotamus  or  a  flea. 
Each  will  answer,  "  death,"  but  none  of  them  will 
hesitate  between  their  own  lives  and  death  ;  and 
if  a  like  question  be  put  to  the  hippopotamus 
and  the  flea,  their  answers  will  be  precisely  simi- 
lar. 

The  difference  in  the  comparative  judgment 
that  each  would  bring  to  bear  on  his  own  life, 


The  Great  Quietus.  175 

and  on  that  of  life  in  an  inferior  degree,  results 
evidently  from  the  fact  that  on  being  questioned 
each  enters  imaginatively  into  the  existence  of 
the  lower  creation,  and  at  once  judges  its  condi- 
tion to  be  insupportable.  The  difference  be- 
tween the  opinion  which  the  flea  holds  on  the 
value  of  its  own  existence  and  our  own  private 
judgment  on  this  insect  is  derived  simply  from  the 
fact  that  the  flea  has  a  quantity  of  absurd  illu- 
sions which  we  do  not  share,  and  these  illusions 
cause  it  such  an  excess  of  imaginary  happiness 
that  in  consequence  it  prefers  its  own  life  to 
death.  In  this  the  flea  is  not  wrong ;  on  the 
contrary,  it  is  quite  right,  for  the  value  of  an  ex- 
istence can  only  be  measured  in  accordance  with 
its  natural  limitations.  In  this  sense  illusion  is 
as  serviceable  as  truth. 

From  this  introduction  it  follows  quite  of  itself 
that  each  and  every  creature  is  capable  of  weigh- 
ing the  discomforts  of  an  existence  inferior  to 
that  in  which  it  dwells,  and  yet  is  unable  to 
rightly  jlidge  its  own.  Each  can  discern  the  il- 
lusions with  which  its  inferior  is  surrounded,  but 
is  always  defenseless  against  its  own,  save  under 
exceptional  circumstances,  as  in  the  case  of  gen- 
ius. Hartmann  concludes,  therefore,  very  logi- 
cally that  an  intelligence  which  is  capable  of 
embracing  every  form  of  life  would  condemn  ex- 
istence in  its  totality  in  the  same  manner  that  an 
intelligence  relatively  restricted  condemns  it  in 
part. 

In  drawing  up  the  balance-sheet  of  life,  Hart- 


176     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

mann  differs  from  Schopenhauer  on  the  ques- 
tion of  the  purely  negaitve  character  of  pleasure. 
That  pleasure  is  at  times  a  negative  condition,  as 
in  the  cessation  of  pain,  he  willingly  admits,  but 
from  his  standpoint  it  is  something  else  besides  ; 
it  may  be  either  positive,  although  derived  from 
an  illusion,  as  in  love,  or  real,  as  in  art  and  sci- 
ence. Nevertheless,  the  predominance  of  pain 
over  pleasure  seems  to  be  firmly  established,  and 
his  examination  of  this  subject  is  not  without  a 
repellant  interest. 

The  four  greatest  blessings  of  life  are  admit- 
tedly health,  youth,  liberty,  and  well-being  ;  but 
from  their  nature,  Hartmann  points  out,  these 
things  are  incapable  of  raising  man  out  of  indif- 
ference into  pleasure  save  only  as  they  may  help 
to  diminish  an  anterior  pain,  or  guard  him  from  a 
possible  discomfort.  Take  the  case  of  health,  for 
instance ;  no  man  thinks  of  his  nerves  until  they 
are  affected,  nor  yet  of  his  eyes  until  they  ache ; 
indeed,  it  may  fairly  be  said  that  a  man  who  is 
in  perfect  condition  only  knows  that  he  has  a 
body  because  he  sees  and  touches  it.  Liberty 
may  be  regarded  in  much  the  same  manner :  it 
is  unnoticed  until  it  is  in  some  way  interfered 
with  ;  while  youth,  which  is  the  most  propitious 
condition  of  life,  is  in  itself  but  capability  and 
possibility,  and  not  possession,  nor  yet  delight. 

Well-being,  the  certainty  of  shelter  from  need 
and  privation,  Hartmann  very  rightly  considers 
merely  as  the  sine  qua  non  of  life  in  its  baldest 
aspect,  for,  he  argues,  were  it  otherwise,  the  sim- 


The  Great  Quietus.  177 

pie  fact  of  living  would  satisfy  and  content  us ; 
but  we  all  know  that  an  assured  existence  is  a 
torment  if  nothing  fills  the  gap. 

In  the  menagerie  of  beasts  that  torture  life 
there  is  one,  Baudelaire  says  in  his  easy  metre, 
that  is  more  hideous  than  all  the  rest ;  it  is  :  — 

..."  1'ennui !  L'ceil  charge  d'un  pleur  involontaire 

II  reve  d'echafauds  en  fumant  son  houka  — 

Tu  le  connais,  lecteur,  ce  monstre  delicat, 

—  Hypocrite  lecteur,  —  mon  semblable,  —  mon  frere  ! " 

This  insupportable  companion  of  inaction  is 
usually  banished  by  work ;  but  then,  to  him  who 
is  obliged  to  labor,  is  not  work  often  distasteful, 
and  even  a  species  of  misfortune  ?  Indeed,  there 
are  few,  if  any,  who  ever  work  save  under  com- 
pulsion ;  and  whether  the  compulsion  is  caused 
by  the  attracting  force  of  fame,  the  desire  to  es- 
cape from  want,  or  comes  simply  as  a  promise  of 
relief  from  boredom,  the  incentive  and  necessity 
are  one  and  the  same.  It  is  true  that  man  when 
at  work  is  consoled  by  the  thought  of  rest,  but 
then  work  and  rest  merely  serve  to  change  his 
position,  and  they  do  so  very  much  in  the  same 
manner  as  that  uneasiness  which  forces  the  in- 
valid to  turn  in  bed,  and  then  to  turn  back  again, 
when  it  has  shown  him  that  the  second  position 
is  no  better  than  the  first. 

The  great  blessings  of  life,  therefore,  reduce 
themselves,  in  brief,  to  this  :  they  represent  but 
that  affranchisement  from  pain  which  is  equiva- 
lent to  a  state  of  pure  indifference  ;  but  as  no 
one  reaches  this  condition  save  momentarily  and 

12 


178     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

by  accident,  it  seems  to  follow  that  life  has  less 
charm  than  non-existence,  which  represents  indif- 
ference in  its  most  absolute  and  unquestioned 
form. 

This  state  of  beatitude  is  yet  to  be  acquired  ; 
meanwhile,  as  Schiller  says,  so  long  as  philoso- 
phy does  not  govern  the  world,  hunger  and  love 
will  suffice  to  keep  it  in  motion.  After  the  four 
causes  of  contentment,  Hartmann's  views  on  the 
two  incentives  to  activity  remain  to  be  examined. 

In  regard  to  the  first,  it  may  be  said  without 
extravagance  that  the  sufferings  of  hunger  rule 
the  greater  portion  of  the  1300  millions  of  the 
earth's  inhabitants.  Europe  not  long  since  aver- 
aged a  famine  every  seven  years  ;  now,  the  facili- 
ties of  communication  have  replaced  famine  with 
an  increased  valuation  of  food.  Death  is  the 
rarest  and  the  least  important  evil  that  hunger 
occasions  ;  what  is  most  to  be  regarded  is  the 
physical  and  intellectual  impoverishment,  the 
mortality  among  children,  and  the  particular  mal- 
adies which  it  engenders. 

According  to  Hartmann,  the  analysis  of  hun- 
ger shows  that  in  satisfying  its  demands  the  in- 
dividual does  not  raise  his  sensibility  above  a 
state  of  pure  indifference.  He  may,  it  is  true, 
under  favorable  circumstances,  cause  a  certain 
pleasure  to  predominate  over  suffering  by  means 
of  taste  and  digestion ;  but  in  the  animal  king- 
dom, as  in  humanity,  taken  as  a  whole,  the  tor- 
tures caused  by  hunger  are  greatly  in  excess  of 
any  pleasures  that  may  attach  to  it.  In  fact, 


The  Great  Quietus.  179 

from    Hartmann's    standpoint,   the   necessity   of 
eating  is  in  itself  a  misfortune. 

After  all  that  has  been  said  through  centuries 
of  literature  on  the  subject  of  love,  it  is  certainly 
difficult  to  be  original  ,  but  Hartmann  has  at 
least  the  merit  of  presenting  it  in  a  more  ab- 
stract light,  and  from  a  less  alluring  standpoint 
than  any  other  writer  who  has  handled  the  sub- 
ject. For  love,  according  to  his  views,  is  either 
contrary  to  the  laws  of  society,  and  as  such  envi- 
roned by  perils  and  pains,  vice  and  degradation, 
or  it  is  perfectly  legal,  and,  in  that  case,  quickly 
extinguished.  "  In  the  majority  of  cases,"  he 
says,  "  insurmountable  obstacles  arise  between 
the  two  lovers  and  cause  a  consequent  and  im- 
mense despair,  while  in  the  rarer  and  more  for- 
tunate instances  the  expected  happiness  turns 
out  to  be  purely  illusory." 

It  is,  however,  as  hard  to  love  as  it  is  not  to 
love ;  but  he  (Hartmann)  says,  "  Who  once  rec- 
ognizes that  the  happiness  which  it  offers  is  but 
a  chimera,  and  that  its  pains  are  greater  than  its 
pleasures,  will,  while  unable  perhaps  to  escape 
entirely  from  its  allurements,  be  none  the  less  able 
to  judge  it  differently  from  the  novice,  and  there- 
fore capable  of  diminishing  some  of  its  suffering, 
and  some  of  the  disproportion  between  its  joys 
and  its  sorrows."  According  to  this  savage  mor- 
alist, then,  love  is  either  an  illusory  and  quickly 
vanishing  happiness,  or  an  actual  suffering,  and 
resembles  hunger  precisely  in  that  it  is  in  itself 
and  to  the  individual  a  veritable  curse. 


I  So     The   PJiilosopJiy  of  Disenchantment. 

Hartmann  judges  marriage  with  an  epigram 
borrowed  from  Lessing  :  "  There  is,  at  most,  but 
one  disagreeable  woman  in  the  world  ;  it  is  only 
a  pity  that  every  man  gets  her  for  himself."  In 
very  much  the  same  manner  are  the  ties  of  fam- 
ily and  friendship  weighed  and  judged.  Scat- 
tered here  and  there  is  some  reflection  of  Scho- 
penhauer's wit  and  wisdom,  but  generally  the 
discussion  is  defective,  and  lacks  the  grace  of 
style  and  purity  of  diction  which  characterized 
the  latter  writer.  The  sentiments  of  honor,  pub- 
lic esteem,  ambition,  and  glory  depend,  he  says, 
on  the  opinion  of  others,  and  are  therefore  merely 
toys  of  the  imagination,  "  for  my  joys  and  trou- 
bles exist  in  my  mind,  and  not  in  the  minds  of 
other  people.  Their  opinion  concerning  me  has 
merely  a  conventional  value,  and  not  one  which 
is  effective  for  me." 

But  to  him  who  journeys  through  the  desert 
called  life,  there  is  still  one  suave  and  green 
oasis.  Hartmann  is  not  utterly  relentless,  and 
though  perhaps  on  all  other  subjects  he  may 
seem  skeptical  as  a  ragpicker,  he  has  yet  a  word 
or  two  of  cheer  for  art  and  science.  These 
pleasant  lands,  however,  are  only  traversable  by 
rare  and  privileged  natures,  for  if  from  the  pleas- 
ure which  attaches  to  music,  painting,  poetry, 
philosophy,  and  science,  a  deduction  be  made  of 
all  that  which  is  but  sham,  dilettanteism,  and  van- 
ity, the  more  considerable  part  of  this  supreme 
resource  will  be  found  to  have  disappeared. 
That  which  remains  over  is  the  compensation 


The  Great  Quietus.  181 

which  nature  preserves  as  recompense  to  the  ex- 
treme sensibility  of  the  artist  and  thinker,  to 
whom  the  miseries  of  life  are  far  more  poignant 
than  to  other  men,  whose  sensibilities  are  duller 
and  less  impressionable.  Now,  if  the  ubiquity 
of  suffering  is  admitted,  the  temperament  of  this 
latter  class  is,  in  the  long  run,  undoubtedly  prefer- 
able to  the  more  refined  organization  of  the  artist ; 
for,  after  all,  a  state  of  comparative  insensibility 
is  evidently  not  too  dearly  bought,  when  the  price 
is  merely  the  lack  of  a  delight,  whose  absence  is 
not  a  privation,  and  which,  to  those  able  to  ap- 
preciate it,  is  as  rare  as  it  is  limited  in  duration. 
Moreover,  even  the  real  and  ineffaceable  pleas- 
ures which  the  thinker  and  artist  enjoy  are  ob- 
tainable only  after  much  trouble  and  discomfort. 

Genius  does  not  fall  from  the  skies  ready- 
made  and  complete  in  armor  and  equipment ; 
the  study  which  is  to  develop  it  is  a  task  pain- 
ful and  tiresome,  whose  pleasures  are  rare,  and, 
generally  speaking,  but  those  of  anticipation  and 
vanquished  obstacles.  Each  art  has  its  me- 
chanical side,  which  demands  a  long  apprentice- 
ship ;  and  even  then,  after  the  preliminary  prepa- 
ration, the  only  pleasant  moments  are  those  of 
conception,  which,  in  turn,  are  directly  succeeded 
by  the  long  hours  of  technical  execution. 

In  the  case  of  the  amateur,  the  pleasure  of  list- 
ening, to  good  music,  of  seeing  a  fine  actor,  or 
of  looking  at  works  of  art,  is  undoubtedly  the 
one  that  causes  the  least  amount  of  inconven- 
ience, and  yet  Hartmann  is  not  to  be  blamed  for 


1 82     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

noting  that  even  this  pleasure  is  seldom  unal- 
loyed. In  the  first  place,  there  is  the  bother  of 
going  to  the  picture-gallery ;  then  there  is  the 
bad  air  and  hubbub  in  the  theatre;  after  this 
come  the  dangers  of  catching  cold,  of  being  run 
into,  or  annoyed  in  a  dozen  different  ways,  and 
especially  the  fatigue  of  watching  and  listening. 

In  the  case  of  the  artist  there  are  the  inevita- 
ble deceptions  ;  the  struggles  with  envy,  the  in- 
difference and  disdain  of  the  public.  Chamfort 
was  wont  to  exclaim,  "  The  public  indeed !  how 
many  idiots  does  it  take  to  make  a  public  ?  " 
The  public,  nevertheless,  has  the  ability  to  make 
itself  very  disagreeable,  and  not  every  one  courts 
its  smile  with  success.  If,  in  addition  to  all 
these  things,  the  nervous  organization  of  the 
thinker,  more  vibrant  a  thousandfold  than  that 
of  other  men,  is  taken  into  consideration,  it 
will  be  seen  that  Hartmann  is  not  wrong  in 
stating  that  the  pleasures  to  which  this  class  is 
privileged  are  expiated  by  a  greater  sensibility 
to  pain. 

But  while  art  is  not  without  its  disadvantages, 
Hartmann  declares  that  life  still  holds  one  solace 
that  is  supreme  and  unalloyed.  "  Unconscious 
sleep,"  he  says,  "  is  relatively  the  happiest  condi- 
tion, for  it  is  the  only  one  from  which  pain  is 
completely  banished.  With  dreams,  however, 
all  the  miseries  of  life  return;  and  happiness, 
when  it  then  appears,  does  so  only  in  the  vague 
form  of  an  agreeable  sensation,  such  as  that  of 
being  freed  from  the  body,  or  flying  through  the 


The  Great  Quietus.  183 

air.  The  pleasures  of  art  and  science,  the  only 
ones  which  could  reconcile  a  sensible  man  to  life, 
are  intangible  herein,  while  suffering,  on  the 
other  hand,  appears  in  its  most  positive  form." 

Among  the  different  factors  which  are  gen- 
erally supposed  to  be  more  or  less  productive  of 
happiness,  wealth  or  its  symbol,  money,  usually 
represents  the  enchanted  wand  that  opens  the 
gate  to  every  joy  of  life.  It  is  true  that  we  have 
seen  that  all  these  joys  were  illusions,  and  that 
their  pursuit  was  more  painful  than  pleasing,  but 
Hartmann  here  makes  an  exception  in  favor  of 
the  delights  which  art  and  science  procure,  and 
also,  like  a  true  Berlinois,  of  those  which  the 
table  affords. 

"Wealth,"  he  says,  "makes  me  lord  and  mas- 
ter. With  it  I  can  purchase  the  pleasures  of  the 
table,  and  even  those  of  love."  It  is  unnecessary 
to  contend  with  him  on  this  point :  our  tastes  all 
differ ;  still  there  are  few,  it  is  to  be  imagined, 
who  will  envy  him  in  an  affection  which  is  pur- 
chasable with  coin  of  the  realm.  Moreover, 
wealth  does  not  make  one  lord  and  master;  there 
is  a  certain  charm  in  original  and  brilliant  con- 
versation which  neither  Hartmann  nor  any  one 
else  could  buy,  even  though  all  the  wealth  of 
Ormus  and  the  Ind  stood  to  his  credit  on  the 
ledgers  of  the  Landesbank.  Wealth,  however, 
he  hastens  to  explain,  should  be  valued  not  for 
the  commodities  which  it  can  procure,  but  rather 
because  we  are  enabled  therewith  to  shield  our- 
selves from  inconveniences  which  would  other- 


184     The  PhilosopJiy  of  Disenchantment. 

wise  disturb  that  zero  of  the  sensibility  which 
the  pessimist  holds  to  be  the  nearest  approach  to 
reality  in  happiness. 

It  is  said  that  the  drowning  man  will  clutch  at 
a  straw,  and  it  is  possible  that  the  reader  who 
has  seen  his  illusions  dispersed  and  slaughtered 
one  by  one  has  perhaps  deluded  himself  with 
the  fancy  that  hope  at  least  might  yet  survive ; 
if  he  has  done  so,  he  may  be  sure  that  he  has 
reckoned  without  his  host.  Hartmann  guillo- 
tines the  blue  goddess  in  the  most  off-hand  man- 
ner ;  she  is  the  last  on  the  list,  and  he  does  the 
job  with  a  hand  which  is,  so  to  speak,  well  in. 
Of  course  hope  is  a  great  delight ;  who  thinks  of 
denying  it?  Certainly  not  the  headsman,  who 
even  drops  a  sort  of  half  tear  over  her  mangled 
wings.  But  if  we  come  to  look  over  the  warrant 
which  has  legalized  the  execution,  the  question 
naturally  arises  who  and  what  is  hope  ?  It  is  of 
little  use  to  ask  the  poets,  for  they  are  all  astray ; 
what  they  see  in  hope  is  a  fair  sky  girt  with  lau- 
rels,—  in  other  words,  the  rape  of  happiness;  but 
has  it  not  been  repeated  even  to  satiety  that 
happiness  does  not  exist,  that  pain  outbalances 
pleasure  ?  What  is  hope,  then,  but  an  illusion  ? 
and  an  illusion,  too,  that  plays  all  manner  of 
tricks  with  us,  and  amuses  itself  at  our  expense ; 
one,  in  fact,  which  makes  use  of  us  until  our  task 
is  accomplished,  and  we  understand  that  all 
things  are  different  from  that  which  we  desired. 
"  He,  then,"  Hartmann  says,  "  who  is  once  con- 
vinced that  hope  is  as  vain  and  illusory  as  its  ob- 


The  Great  Quietus.  185 

ject  will  see  its  influence  gradually  wane  beneath 
the  power  of  the  understanding,  and  the  one 
thing  to  which  he  will  then  look  forward  will  be, 
not  the  greatest  amount  of  happiness,  but  the 
easiest  burden  of  pain." 

In  all  that  has  gone  before,  Hartmann  has  en- 
deavored to  show  that  suffering  increases  with 
the  development  of  the  intellect,  or  rather,  that 
happiness  exists  only  in  the  mineral  kingdom, 
which  represents  that  zero  of  the  senses  above 
which  man  struggles  in  vain.  It  has  been  seen 
that  they  whose  nervous  systems  are  most  im- 
pressionable have  a  larger  share  of  suffering  than 
their  less  sensitive  brethren  ;  furthermore,  expe- 
rience teaches  that  the  lower  classes  are  more 
contented  than  the  cultivated  and  the  rich,  for 
while  they  are  more  exposed  to  want,  yet  they  are 
thicker-skinned  and  more  obtuse.  In  descend- 
ing the  scale  of  life,  therefore,  it  is  easy  to  show 
that  such  weight  of  pain  as  burdens  animal  ex- 
istence is  less  than  that  which  man  supports. 
The  horse,  whose  sensibility  is  most  delicate, 
leads  a  more  painful  existence  than  the  swine,  or 
even  the  fish,  whose  happiness  at  high  tide  is 
proverbial.  The  life  of  the  fish  is  happier  than 
that  of  the  horse,  the  oyster  is  happier  than  the 
fish,  the  life  of  the  plant  is  happier  yet,  and  so 
on  down  to  the  last  degrees  of  organic  life,  where 
consciousness  expires  and  suffering  ends. 

The  balance  sheet  of  human  pleasure  and  pain 
may  therefore  be  summed  up  somewhat  as  fol- 
lows :  in  the  first  column  stand  those  conditions 


1 86     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

which  correspond  to  a  state  of  pure  indifference, 
and  merely  represent  the  absence  of  certain  suf- 
ferings ;  these  are  health,  youth,  liberty,  and  well- 
being  ;  in  the  second  are  those  which  stand  as  il- 
lusory incentives,  such  as  the  desire  for  wealth, 
power,  esteem,  and  general  regard ;  in  the  third 
are  those  which,  as  a  rule,  cause  more  pain  than 
pleasure,  such  as  hunger  and  love  ;  in  the  fourth 
are  those  which  rest  on  illusions,  such  as  hope, 
etc. ;  in  the  fifth  are  those  which,  recognized  as 
misfortunes,  are  only  accepted  to  escape  still 
greater  ones  :  these  are  work  and  marriage  ;  in 
the  sixth  are  those  which  afford  more  pleasure 
than  pain,  but  whose  joys  must  be  paid  for  by 
suffering,  and  in  any  event  can  be  shared  but  by 
the  few :  this  is  the  column  of  art  and  science. 

Let  a  line  be  drawn  and  the  columns  added 
up,  the  sum  total  amounts  to  the  inevitable  con- 
clusion that  pain  is  greatly  in  excess  of  pleas- 
ure; and  this  not  alone  in  the  average,  but  in 
the  particular  existence  of  each  individual,  and 
even  in  the  case  of  him  who  seems  exceptionally 
favored.  Hartmann  has  taken  great  care  to 
point  out  that  experience  demonstrates  the  van- 
ity of  each  of  the  opulent  aspirations  of  youth, 
and  that  on  the  subject  of  individual  happi- 
ness intelligent  old  age  preserves  but  few  illu- 
sions. 

Such  is  the  schedule  of  pleasure  and  pain 
which  each  one  is  free  to  verify  by  his  own  expe- 
rience, or,  better  still,  to  disregard  altogether ; 
for,  from  what  has  gone  before,  it  is  easy  to  see 


The  Great  Quietus.  187 

that  man  is  most  happy  when  he  is  the  uncon- 
scious dupe  of  his  own  illusions.  In  Koheleth  it 
is  written  :  "  To  add  to  knowledge  is  to  add  to 
pain."  He,  then,  whose  judgment  is  obscured 
by  illusions  is  less  sensible  to  the  undeniable 
miseries  of  life  ;  he  is  always  prepared  to  wel- 
come hope,  and  each  deception  is  forgotten  in 
the  expectation  of  better  things.  Mr.  Micawber, 
whose  acquaintance  we  have  all  made,  is  not 
alone  a  type,  but  a  lesson,  the  moral  of  which  is 
sometimes  overlooked. 

In  brief,  Hartmann's  teaching  resolves  itself 
into  the  doctrine  that  the  idea  that  happiness 
is  obtainable  in  this  life  is  the  first  and  fore- 
most of  illusions.  This  conclusion,  in  spite  of 
certain  eccentricities  of  statement,  is  none  the 
less  one  which  will  be  found  singularly  difficult 
to  refute.  But  every  question  has  two  different 
sides,  and  this  one  is  no  exception.  The  devil, 
whom  Schopenhauer  painted  in  a  good  grim  gray, 
Hartmann  has  daubed  all  over  with  a  depth  of 
black  of  which  he  is  certainly  undeserving ;  and 
not  only  that,  but  he  has  taken  an  evident  pleas- 
ure in  so  doing.  It  is  not,  therefore,  unfair  to 
use  his  own  weapon,  and  tell  him  that  he,  too,  is 
the  dupe  of  an  illusion,  or,  to  borrow  a  simile 
from  the  prince  of  wits,  to  insist  that  while  he 
may  not  carry  any  unnecessary  quantity  of  motes 
in  his  eye,  some  dust  has  assuredly  settled  on 
his  monocle. 

As  is  the  case  with  others  who  have  treated  the 
subject,  Hartmann  confounds  the  value  of  the 


1 88     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

existence  of  the  unit  with  the  worth  of  life  in  the 
aggregate.  Taken  as  a  whole,  it  is  undeniably 
and  without  doubt  unfortunate,  but  that  does 
not  prevent  many  people  from  being  superla- 
tively, and,  to  the  pessimist,  even  insultingly 
happy  ;  and  though  the  joy  of  a  lifetime  be  cir- 
cumscribed in  a  single  second,  yet  it  is  not  rash 
to  say  that  that  second  of  joy  may  be  so  vividly 
intense  as  to  compensate  its  recipient  for  all  mis- 
eries past  and  to  come.  It  may  be  noted,  fur- 
ther, that  the  balance-sheet  which  has  just  been 
reviewed  is  simply  a  resultant  of  Hartmann's  in- 
dividual opinion.  Sometimes,  it  is  true,  he  deals 
with  unquestioned  facts,  and  sometimes  with  un- 
answerable figures;  but  it  has  been  wittily  said 
that  nothing  is  so  fallacious  as  facts  except  fig- 
ures ;  and  certain  of  these  figures  and  facts, 
which  seem  to  bear  out  his  statements,  are  found 
at  times  to  be  merely  assertions,  and  exaggerated 
at  that. 

The  second  great  illusion  from  which  Hart- 
mann  would  deliver  us  is  the  belief  that  happi- 
ness is  realizable  in  a  future  life.  As  has  been 
seen,  he  has  already  contended  that  earthly  fe- 
licity is  unobtainable,  and  his  arguments  against 
a  higher  state  are,  in  a  word,  that  unless  the  con- 
dition which  follows  life  is  compared  to  the  an- 
terior state  of  being,  chaos,  the  successor  of  life, 
can  bring  to  man  neither  happiness  nor  unhappi- 
ness  ;  but  as  the  belief  in  the  regeneration  of 
the  body  is  no  longer  tenable,  it  follows  that  this 
contrast  cannot  be  appreciated  by  the  non-exist- 


The  Great  Quietus.  189 

ent,  who  are  necessarily  without  thought  or  con- 
sciousness. 

This  doctrine,  which  is  very  nearly  akin  to 
Buddhism,  has,  of  course,  but  little  in  common 
with  Christianity.  Christianity  does  not,  it  is 
true,  recognize  in  us  any  fee  simple  to  happiness, 
but  it  recommends  the  renunciation  of  such  as 
may  be  held,  that  the  value  of  the  transcendent 
felicity  which  it  promises  may  be  heightened  to  a 
still  greater  extent.  It  was  this  regenerating 
hope,  this  association  of  a  disdain  for  life  to  a 
promise  of  eternal  well-being,  that  saved  antiq- 
uity from  the  despair  and  distaste  for  life  in 
which  it  was  being  slowly  consumed.  But,  ac- 
cording to  the  tendency  of  modern  thought, 
every  effort  to  demonstrate  the  reality  of  ultra- 
mundane happiness  only  results  in  a  more  or  less 
disguised  and  fantastic  representation  of  Nir- 
vana, while  the  idea  which  each  forms  of  such  a 
condition  varies  naturally  with  the  degree  of  his 
culture.  It  is  certainly  not  at  all  astonishing  that 
all  those  who  are  more  or  less  attached  to  the 
Christian  conception  of  life  should,  as  Hartmann 
says,  indignantly  repulse  any  and  every  sugges- 
tion of  this  description.  For  such  ideas  to  be  ac- 
cepted, a  long  and  worldly  civilizing  preparation 
is  needed. 

A  period  of  this  nature  is  found  in  his  analysis 
of  the  third  and  last  great  illusion,  which  holds 
that  happiness  will  be  realizable  in  the  progress- 
ing evolution  of  the  world.  The  chapter  in  which 
this  subject  is  treated  is  one  of  the  most  mas- 


190     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

terly  in  his  entire  work,  and  as  such  is  well  de- 
serving of  careful  examination. 

First,  it  may  be  explained  that  to  the  student 
of  modern  science  the   history  of   the  world   is 
that  of  a  continuous  and  immense  development. 
The  union  of  photometry  and  spectral  analysis 
enables  him  to  follow  the  evolution  of  other  plan- 
ets, while  chemistry  and  mineralogy  teach   him 
something  of  the   earth's   own   story  before   it 
cooled   its   outer   crust.      Biology  discloses   the 
evolution  of  the  vegetable  and  animal  kingdom  ; 
archaeology,    with   some    assistance    from   other 
sources,  throws  an  intelligible  light  over  the  pre- 
historic development  of  man,  while  history  brings 
with  it  the  reverberation  of  the  ordered  march 
of  civilization,  and  points  at  the   same  time  to 
larger  and  grander  perspectives.     It  is  not  hard, 
then,  to  be  convinced  of  the  reality  of  progress ; 
the   difficulty  lies  in   the  inability  to  present  it 
to  one's  self  in  a  thoroughly  unselfish    manner. 
From   an   egoist   point  of   view,  man  —  and   by 
man  is  meant  he  who  has  succeeded  in  divest- 
ing himself  of  the  two  illusions  just  considered 
—  would  condemn  life  not  only  as  a  useless  pos- 
session, but  as  an  affliction.     He  has,  however, 
Hartmann  tells  him,  a  role  to  fill  under  the  prov- 
idential direction  of  the  Unconscious,  which,  in 
conformity  with   the   plan    of   absolute  wisdom, 
draws  the  world  on  to  a  beneficent  end,  and  this 
role  exacts  that  he  shall  take  interest  in,  and  joy- 
ously sacrifice  himself  to  life.     If  he  does  other- 
wise, his  loss  prevents  no  suffering  to  society  j 


The  Great  Quietus.  191 

on  the  contrary,  it  augments  the  general  discom- 
fort by  the  length  of  time  which  is  needed  to  re- 
place a  useful  member.  Man  may  not,  then,  as 
Schopenhauer  recommended,  assist  as  a  passive 
spectator  of  life ;  on  the  contrary,  he  must  cease- 
lessly act,  work,  and  produce,  and  associate  him- 
self without  regret  in  the  economic  and  intellec- 
tual development  of  society  ;  or,  in  other  words, 
he  must  lend  his  aid  to  the  attainment  of  the  su- 
preme goal  of  the  evolution  of  the  universe,  for 
that  there  is  a  goal  it  is  as  impossible  to  doubt 
as  it  is  unreasonable  to  suppose  that  the  world's 
one  end  and  aim  is  to  turn  on  its  orbit  and  enjoy 
the  varied  spectacle  of  pain.  And  yet,  what  is 
this  goal  to  which  all  nature  tends  ?  According 
to  a  theory  which  nowadays  is  very  frequently 
expressed,  it  is  the  attainment  of  universal  hap- 
piness through  gradual  advancement  and  prog- 
ress. 

But,  whatever  progress  humanity  may  realize, 
it  will  never  be  able,  Hartmann  affirms,  to  do 
away  with,  nor  yet  diminish  those  most  painful 
of  evils,  illness,  old  age,  poverty,  and  discontent. 
So,  no  matter  to  how  great  an  extent  remedies 
may  be  multiplied,  disorders,  and  especially  those 
which  are  light  but  chronic,  will  spread  with  a 
progression  far  more  rapid  than  the  knowledge  of 
therapeutics.  The  gayety  of  youth,  moreover, 
will  never  be  but  the  privilege  of  a  fraction  of 
mankind,  while  the  greater  part  will  continue  to 
be  devoured  by  the  melancholy  of  old  age.  The 
poverty  of  the  masses,  too,  as  the  world  ad- 


192     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

vances,  becomes  more  and  more  formidable,  for 
all  the  while  the  masses  are  gaining  a  clearer  per- 
ception of  their  misery.  The  happiest  races,  it 
has  been  said  over  and  over  again,  are  those 
which  live  nearest  to  nature,  as  do  the  savage 
tribes ;  and  after  them  come  necessarily  the  civ- 
ilized nations,  which  are  the  least  cultivated. 
Historically  speaking,  therefore,  the  progress  of 
civilization  corresponds  with  the  spread  of  gen- 
eral nausea. 

May  it  not  be,  then,  as  Kant  maintained,  that 
the  practice  of  universal  morality  is  the  great  aim 
of  evolution  ?  Hartmann  considers  the  question 
at  great  length,  and  decides  in  the  negative  ;  for, 
were  it  such,  it  would  necessarily  expand  with 
time,  gain  ground,  so  to  speak,  and  take  a  firm 
hold  on  the  different  classes  of  society.  These 
feats,  of  course,  it  has  not  performed,  for  immo- 
rality in  descending  the  centuries  has  changed 
only  in  form.  Indeed,  putting  aside  the  fluctua- 
tions of  the  character  of  every  race,  it  will  be 
found  that  everywhere  the  same  connection  is 
maintained  between  egotism  and  sympathy.  If 
one  is  shocked  at  the  cruelty  and  brutality  of 
former  days,  it  should  nevertheless  be  remem- 
bered that  uprightness,  sincerity,  and  justice 
were  the  characteristics  of  earlier  nations.  Who 
shall  say,  however,  that  to-day  we  do  not  live  in 
a  reign  of  falsehood,  perfidy,  and  the  coarsest 
crimes  ;  and  that  were  it  not  for  the  assured  exe- 
cution of  the  repressive  enactments  of  the  state 
and  society,  we  should  see  the  naked  brutality  of 


The  Great  Quietus.  193 

the  barbarians  surge  up  again  among  us  ?  For 
that  matter,  it  may  be  noted  that  at  times  it  does 
reappear  in  all  its  human  bestiality,  and  invaria- 
bly so  the  moment  that  law  and  order  are  in  any 
way  weakened  or  destroyed.  What  happened  in 
the  draft  riots  in  New  York,  and  in  Paris  under 
the  Commune  ? 

Since  morality  cannot  be  the  great  aim  of  evo- 
lution, perhaps  it  may  be  art  and  science  ;  but 
the  further  back  one  looks,  the  more  does  sci- 
entific progress  appear  to  be  the  exclusive  work 
of  certain  rare  and  gifted  minds,  while  the  nearer 
one  approaches  the  present  epoch,  the  more  col- 
lective does  the  work  become.  Hartmann  points 
out  that  the  first  thinkers  were  not  unlike  the 
magicians  who  made  a  monument  rise  out  of 
nothing,  whereas  the  laborers  who  work  at  the 
intellectual  edifice  of  the  present  day  are  but 
corporations  of  intelligent  builders  who  each,  ac- 
cording to  their  strength,  aid  in  the  construction 
of  a  gigantic  tower.  "  The  work  of  science  here- 
after will,"  he  says,  "  be  broader  and  less  pro- 
found ;  it  will  become  exclusively  inductive,  and 
hence  the  demand  for  genius  will  grow  gradually 
less.  Similarity  of  dress  has  already  blended  the 
different  ranks  of  society ;  meanwhile  we  are  ad- 
vancing to  an  analogous  leveling  of  the  intelli- 
gence, which  will  result  in  a  common  but  solid 
mediocrity.  The  delight  in  scientific  production 
will  gradually  wane,  and  the  world  will  end  in 
knowing  only  the  pleasures  of  passive  under- 
standing. But  the  pleasure  of  knowledge  is  taste- 
13 


194     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

less  when  truth  is  presented  like  a  cake  already 
prepared :  to  be  enjoyed  it  must  cost  an  effort 
and  a  struggle." 

Art  will  be  handicapped  in  much  the  same 
manner.  It  is  no  longer  now  what  it  was  for  the 
youth  of  humanity,  a  god  august  dispensing  hap- 
piness with  open  hands  ;  it  is  simply  a  matter  of 
amusement,  a  remedy  for  ennui,  and  a  distraction 
from  the  fatigues  of  the  day.  Hence  the  increase 
of  dilettantism  and  the  neglect  of  serious  study. 
The  future  of  art  is  to  Hartmann  self-evident. 
"  Age  has  no  ideal,  or  rather,  it  has  lost  what  it 
had,  and  art  is  condemned  in  the  increasing 
years  of  humanity  to  hold  the  same  position  as 
the  nightly  ballets  and  farces  now  do  to  the  bank- 
ers and  brokers  of  large  cities." 

This  consistent  treatment  of  the  subject  Hart- 
mann cleverly  founds  on  the  analogy  of  the  dif- 
ferent ages  of  the  life  of  the  individual  with  the 
development  of  humanity.  It  is,  of  course, 
merely  a  series  of  affirmations,  but  not  for  that 
reason  necessarily  untrue.  The  great  thinkers 
have  disappeared,  as  have  also  the  great  artists  ; 
and  they  have  done  so,  Hartrjnann  would  say,  be- 
cause we  no  longer  need  them.  Indeed,  there 
can  be  little  doubt  that  could  the  Greeks  come 
back,  they  would  tell  us  our  art  was  barbarous  ; 
even  to  the  casual  observer  it  has  retrograded, 
nor  is  it  alone  in  painting  and  sculpture  that 
symptoms  of  decadence  are  noticeable ;  if  we 
look  at  the  tendencies  in  literature,  nothing  very 
commendable  is  to  be  found,  save  in  isolated  in- 


The  Great  Quietus.  195 

stances,  where  the  technicalities  of  style  have 
been  raised  very  near  to  perfection  ;  but,  apart 
from  a  few  purists  who  can  in  no  sense  be  called 
popular,  the  majority  of  the  manufacturers  of  fic- 
tion have  nothing  to  offer  but  froth  and  rubbish. 

The  modern  stage,  too,  brings  evidence  that  a 
palpitant  tableau  is  more  appreciated  than  a  pol- 
ished comedy,  and  the  concert-hall  tells  a  story 
which  is  not  dissimilar.  Music,  which  with  Mo- 
zart changed  its  sex,  has  been  turned  into  a  har- 
lot by  Offenbach  and  his  successors  ;  and  there 
are  but  few  nowadays  who  would  hesitate  between 
Don  Juan  and  the  last  inanity  of  Strauss.  One 
composer,  however,  of  incontestable  genius,  has 
been  slowly  fighting  his  way  into  the  hearts  of 
cultivated  people,  and,  curiously  enough,  has 
sought  to  translate  with  an  orchestra  some  part 
of  the  philosophy  of  pessimism.  Schopenhauer, 
it  is  said,  shook  his  head  at  Wagner,  and  would 
have  none  of  him ;  yet  if  Schopenhauer  was  ever 
wrong,  he  was  certainly  wrong  in  that ;  for  Wag- 
ner has  expressed,  as  no  one  will  do  again,  the 
flooding  rush  of  Will,  and  the  unspiritual  but 
harmonious  voice  of  Nature. 

But  whatever  may  become  of  art,  science  is 
not  to  be  dismissed  so  abruptly.  Practically 
considered,  the  political,  social,  and  industrial 
advance  of  the  world  depends  entirely  on  its 
progress  ;  and  yet,  from  Hartmann's  standpoint, 
all  that  has  been  accomplished  hitherto,  by  the 
aid  of  manufactories,  steamships,  railways  and 
telegraphs,  has  merely  served  to  lessen  the  em- 


196     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

barrassments  which  compressed  the  activity  of 
man  ;  and  the  sole  advantage  which  society  has 
reaped  by  their  aid  is  that  the  force  heretofore 
expended  in  actual  labor  is  now  free  for  the  play 
of  the  intellect,  and  serves  to  hasten  the  evolu- 
tion of  the  world.  This  result,  Hartmann  re- 
marks, while  of  importance  to  general  progress, 
in  no  wise  affects  the  happiness  of  the  individ- 
ual. 

This  last  statement  of  his  will  perhaps  be  bet- 
ter understood  if  it  be  taken  into  consideration 
that  the  increased  production  of  food  which  will 
necessarily  follow  on  a  more  intelligent  culture 
of  the  soil  will  greatly  augment  the  population. 
An  increase  of  population  will  multiply  the  num- 
ber of  those  who  are  always  on  the  verge  of  star- 
vation, of  which  there  are  already  millions.  But 
an  advance  of  this  kind,  while  a  step  backward 
one  way,  must  yet  be  a  step  forward  in  another ; 
for  the  wealth  which  it  will  bring  in  its  train  will 
necessarily  aid  in  diminishing  suffering. 

Politically  considered,  the  outlook  does  not 
seem  to  be  much  more  assured.  An  ideal  gov- 
ernment can  do  nothing  more  than  permit  man 
to  live  without  fear  of  unjust  aggressions,  and 
enable  him  to  prepare  the  ground  on  which  he 
may  construct,  if  he  can,  the  edifice  of  his  own 
happiness.  Socially,  the  result  will  be  about  the 
same :  through  solidarity,  association,  and  other 
means,  men  will  learn  how  to  make  the  struggle 
of  the  individual  with  want  less  severe  ;  yet,  in  all 
this,  his  burdens  will  be  merely  lightened,  and 
positive  happiness  will  remain  unobtained. 


The  Great  Quietus.  197 

Such  are  the  outlines  of  Hartmann's  concep- 
tion of  what  future  progress  will  amount  to.  If 
the  ideal  is  realized,  man  will  be  gradually  raised 
out  of  the  misery  in  which  he  is  plunged,  and  lit- 
tle by  little  approach  a  state  of  indifference  in 
every  sphere  of  his  activity.  But  it  should  be  re- 
membered that  the  ideal  is  ever  intangible  ;  man 
may  approach,  but  he  can  never  reach  it,  and 
consequently  will  remain  always  in  a  state  of  suf- 
fering. 

In  this  manner,  but  with  a  profusion  of  argu- 
ment, which,  if  not  always  convincing,  is  yet 
highly  instructive,  Hartmann  has  shown  in  brief 
that  the  people  that  dwell  nearest  to  nature  are 
happier  than  the  civilized  nations,  that  the  poor 
are  more  contented  than  the  rich,  the  poor  in 
spirit  more  blessed  than  the  intelligent,  and  that 
in  general  that  man  is  the  happiest  whose  sensi- 
bilities are  the  most  obtuse,  because  pleasure  is 
then  less  dominated  by  pain,  and  illusions  are 
more  steadfast  and  complete  ;  moreover,  that  the 
progress  of  humanity  develops  not  only  wealth 
and  its  needs,  and  consequently  discontent,  but 
also  the  aptitudes  and  culture  of  the  intellect, 
which  in  turn  awaken  man  to  the  consciousness 
of  the  misery  of  life,  and  in  so  doing  heighten 
the  sentiment  of  general  misfortune. 

The  dream  that  another  golden  age  is  to  visit 
the  earth  is,  therefore,  puerile  in  the  extreme. 
As  the  wayfarer's  burden  grows  heavier  with  the 
miles,  so  do  humanity's  suffering  and  the  con- 
sciousness of  its  misery  continually  increase. 


198     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

The  child  lives  in  the  moment,  the  adolescent 
dreams  of  a  transcendent  ideal ;  man  aspires  to 
glory,  then  to  wealth  or  practical  wisdom  ;  lastly, 
old  age,  recognizing  the  vanity  of  all  things, 
holds  but  to  peace,  and  bends  a  tired  head  to 
rest.  "And  so  it  is  with  civilization,  —  nations 
rise,  strengthen,  and  disappear.  Humanity,  by 
unmistakable  signs,  shows  that  it  is  on  the  wane, 
and  that  having  employed  its  strength  in  matur- 
ity, age  is  now  overtaking  it.  In  time  it  will  be 
content  to  live  on  the  accumulated  wisdom  of  the 
centuries,  and,  inured  to  thought,  it  will  review 
the  collective  agitations  of  its  past  life,  and  rec- 
ognize the  vanity  of  the  goal  hitherto  pursued. 
.  .  .  Humanity,  in  its  decline,  will  leave  no  heir 
to  profit  by  its  accumulated  wealth.  It  will  have 
neither  children  nor  grandchildren  to  trouble  the 
rigor  of  its  judgment  through  the  illusions  of  pa- 
rental love.  It  will  sink  finally  into  that  melan- 
choly which  is  the  appanage  of  great  minds  ;  it 
will  in  a  measure  float  above  its  own  body  like 
a  spirit  freed  from  matter ;  or,  as  CEdipus  at  Co- 
lonna,  it  will  in  anticipation  taste  the  calm  of 
chaos,  and  assist  with  compassionate  self-pity  at 
the  spectacle  of  its  own  suffering.  Passions  that 
have  vanished  into  the  depths  of  reason  will  be 
resolved  into  ideas  by  the  white  light  of  thought. 
Illusions  will  have  faded  and  hope  be  done  with, 
for  what  is  there  left  to  hope  ?  Its  highest  aim 
can  be  but  the  absence  of  pain,  for  it  can  no 
longer  dream  of  happiness  ;  still  weak  and  frag- 
ile, working  to  live,  and  yet  not  knowing  why  it 


The  Great  Quietus.  199 

does  so,  it  will  ask  but  one  gift,  the  rest  of  an 
endless  sleep  that  shall  calm  its  weariness  and 
immense  ennui.  It  is  then  that  humanity  will 
have  passed  through  the  three  periods  of  illusion, 
and  in  recognizing  the  nothingness  of  its  former 
hopes  will  aspire  only  to  absolute  insensibility 
and  the  chaos  of  Nirvana." 

It  remains  but  to  inquire  what  is  to  become  of 
disillusionized  humanity,  and  to  what  goal  evolu- 
tion is  tending.  The  foregoing  account  of  Hart- 
man  n's  theory  should  have  shown  that  this  goal 
cannot  be  happiness,  for  at  no  period  has  it  ever 
been  reached,  and,  moreover,  that  with  the  prog- 
ress of  the  world  man  is  gaining  a  clearer  per- 
ception of  his  misery.  On  the  other  hand,  it 
would  be  illogical  to  suppose  that  evolution  is  to 
continue  with  no  other  aim  than  that  of  the  dis- 
charge of  the  successive  moments  that  compose 
it ;  for  if  each  of  these  moments  is  valueless, 
evolution  itself  would  be  -meaningless  ;  but  Hart- 
mann,  it  may  be  remembered,  has  recognized  in 
the  Unconscious  a  principle  of  absolute  wisdom, 
and  the  answer  must  be  looked  for  elsewhere, 
but  preferably  in  that  direction  which  most  no- 
ticeably points  to  some  determined  and  progres- 
sive perfection.  No  such  sign,  however,  is  to  be 
met  with  anywhere  save  in  the  development  of 
consciousness;  here  progress  has  been  clearly 
and  uninterruptedly  at  work,  from  the  appear- 
ance of  the  first  globule  to  contemporaneous  hu- 
manity, and  in  all  probability  will  continue  to 
advance  so  long  as  the  world  subsists.  All 


2OO     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

things  aid  in  its  production  and  development, 
while  to  its  assistance  there  come  not  only  the 
perfecting  of  the  nervous  system,  but  also  such 
personal  incentives  as  the  desire  for  wealth, 
which  in  increasing  general  welfare  disfranchises 
the  intellect ;  then,  too,  there  are  the  stimulants 
to  intellectual  activity,  vanity  and  ambition,  and 
also  sexual  love,  which  heightens  its  aptitudes  ; 
in  short,  every  instinct  which  is  valuable  to  the 
species,  and  which  costs  the  individual  more  pain 
than  pleasure,  is  converted  into  an  unalloyed  and 
increasing  gain  for  consciousness. 

In  spite  of  all  this,  however,  the  development 
of  consciousness  is  but  the  means  to  an  end,  and 
cannot  therefore  be  considered  as  an  absolute 
goal;  "for  consciousness,"  Hartmann  says,  "is 
born  of  pain,  and  exists  and  expands  with  suf- 
fering, and  yet  what  manner  of  consolation  does 
it  offer  ?  Merely  a  vain  self-mirroring.  Of  course, 
if  the  world  were  good  and  beautiful,  this  would 
not  be  without  its  advantage  ;  but  a  world  which 
is  absolutely  miserable,  a  world  which  must  curse 
its  own  existence  the  moment  it  is  able  to  judge 
it,  can  never  regard  its  apparent  and  purely  ideal 
reflection  as  a  reasonable  goal  and  termination 
of  its  existence.  Is  there  not  suffering  enough 
in  reality  ?  Is  it  necessary  to  reproduce  it  in  a 
magic  lantern?  No;  consciousness  cannot  be 
the  supreme  goal  of  a  world  whose  evolution  is 
directed  by  supreme  wisdom.  .  .  .  Some  other 
end  must  be  sought  for,  then,  to  which  the  devel- 
opment of  consciousness  shall  be  but  the  means." 


The  Great  Quietus.  201 

But,  however  the  question  is  regarded,  from 
whatever  standpoint  the  matter  is  viewed,  there 
seems  to  be  but  one  possible  goal,  and  that  is 
happiness.  Everything  that  exists  tends  thereto, 
and  it  is  the  principle  on  which  rests  each  of  the 
diverse  forms  of  practical  philosophy  ;  moreover, 
the  pursuit  of  happiness  is  the  essence  of  Will 
seeking  its  own  pacification.  But  happiness  has 
been  shown  to  be  an  illusion  ;  still  there  must 
be  some  key  to  the  riddle.  The  solution  is  at 
once  simple  and  unexpected.  There  can  be  no 
positive  happiness,  and  yet  happiness  of  some 
kind  is  necessary ;  the  supreme  aim  of  universal 
progress,  of  which  consciousness  is  but  the  in- 
strument, is  then  the  realization  of  the  highest 
possible  felicity,  which  is  nothing  else  than  the 
freedom  from  all  pain,  and,  in  consequence,  the 
cessation  of  all  life  ;  or,  in  other  words,  total  an- 
nihilation. 

This  climax  is  the  only  one  which  Hartmann 
will  consent  to  consider  ;  from  any  other  point  of 
view  evolution  would  be  a  tireless  progressus 
which  some  day  might  be  blindly  arrested  by 
chance,  while  life  in  the  mean  time  would  remain 
in  the  utter  desolation  of  an  issueless  purgatory. 

The  path,  however,  through  which  the  great 
deliverance  is  to  be  effected  is  as  tortuously  per- 
plexing as  the  irrational  duality  of  the  Uncon- 
scious. Many  generations  of  pessimists  are 
needed  before  the  world  will  be  fully  ripe  for  its 
great  leap  into  the  night  of  time ;  even  then, 
though  Hartmann  does  not  appear  to  suspect  it, 


2O2     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

there  will  probably  be  quite  a  number  of  panthe- 
ists who,  drunk  on  Nature,  will  stupidly  refuse  the 
great  bare  bodkin,  which  will  have  thus  been 
carefully  prepared  for  their  viaticum. 

It  should  not  be  supposed  that  in  all  this  there 
is  any  question  of  the  suicide  of  the  individual  : 
Hartmann  is  far  too  dramatic  to  suggest  a  final 
tableau  so  tame  and  humdrum  as  that ;  besides, 
it  has  been  seen  that  the  death  of  the  individual 
does  not  drag  with  it  the  disappearance  of  the 
species,  and  in  no  wise  disturbs  the  heedless  calm 
of  Nature.  It  is  not  the  momentary  and  ephem- 
eral existence  that  is  to  be  destroyed,  for,  after 
its  destruction,  the  repairing  and  reproducing 
force  would  still  survive  ;  it  is  the  principle  of 
existence  itself  which  must  be  extinguished  ;  the 
suicide,  to  be  effectual,  must  be  that  of  the  cos- 
mos. This  proceeding,  which  will  shortly  be  ex- 
plained, "  will  be  the  act  of  the  last  moment, 
after  which  there  will  be  neither  will  nor  activity  ; 
after  which,  to  quote  Saint  John,  '  time  will  have 
ceased  to  be.'  " 

But  here  it  may  be  pertinently  asked  whether 
humanity,  such  as  it  now  is,  will  be  capable  of  this 
grandiose  development  of  consciousness  which  is 
to  prepare  the  absolute  renunciation  of  the  will 
to  live,  or  whether  some  superior  race  is  to  ap- 
pear on  earth  which  will  continue  the  work  and 
attain  the  goal.  May  it  not  be  that  the  globe 
will  be  but  the  theatre  of  an  abortive  effort  of 
this  description,  and  long  after  it  has  gone  to  in- 
crease the  number  of  frozen  spheres,  some  other 


The  Great  Quietus.  203 

planet,  which  is  to  us  invisible,  may,  under  more 
favorable  circumstances,  realize  the  self-same  aim 
and  end  ?  To  this  the  answer  is  made  that  if  hu- 
manity is  ever  destined  to  conduct  the  world's 
evolution  to  its  coronation,  it  will  assuredly  not 
complete  its  task  until  the  culminating  point  of 
its  progress  has  been  reached,  nor  yet  until  it 
has  united  the  most  favorable  conditions  of  exist- 
ence. We  need  not,  however,  bother  about  the 
perspective  which  science  has  disclosed,  and 
which  points  to  a  future  period  of  congelation 
and  complete  inertia ;  long  before  that  time, 
Hartmann  says,  evolution  will  have  ended,  and 
this  world  of  ours,  with  its  continents  and  archi- 
pelagoes, will  have  vanished. 

The  manner  in  which  this  great  and  final  anni- 
hilation is  to  be  accomplished  is  of  a  threefold 
nature ;  the  first  condition  necessary  to  success 
is  that  humanity  at  some  future  time  shall  con- 
centrate such  a  mass  of  Will  that  the  balance, 
spread  about  elsewhere  over  the  world,  will  be  in- 
significant in  proportion.  This,  Hartmann  ex- 
plains, is  in  no  wise  impossible,  "for  the  mani- 
festation of  Will  in  atomic  forces  is  greatly  inferior 
to  that  which  is  exercised  in  the  vegetable  and 
animal  kingdom,  and  hence  much  less  than  that 
which  irrupts  in  man.  The  supposition,  there- 
fore, that  the  greater  part  may  be  capitalized  in 
man  is  not  necessarily  an  idle  dream.  When 
that  day  arrives,  it  will  suffice  for  humanity  to  no 
longer  will  to  live  to  annihilate  the  entire  fabric ; 
for  humanity  will  at  that  time  represent  more 


2O4     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

Will  than  all  the  rest  of  Nature  collectively  con- 
sidered." 

The  second  condition  necessary  to  success  is 
that  mankind  shall  be  so  thoroughly  alive  to  the 
folly  of  life,  so  imperiously  in  need  of  peace,  and 
shall  have  so  completely  disentangled  every  effort 
from  its  aimlessness,  that  the  yearning  for  an 
end  to  existence  will  be  the  prime  motive  of  every 
act.  A  condition  such  as  this,  Hartmann  thinks, 
will  probably  be  realized  in  the  old  age  of  hu- 
manity. The  theory  that  life  is  an  evil  is  already 
admitted  by  thinkers ;  the  supposition,  therefore, 
that  it  may  some  day  triumph  over  the  prejudices 
of  the  multitude  is  neither  absurd  nor  preposter- 
ous. As  is  shown  in  the  history  of  other  creeds, 
an  idea  may  penetrate  so  deeply  into  the  minds 
of  its  adherents  as  to  breed  an  entire  race  of  fa- 
natics ;  and  it  is  the  opinion,  not  of  Hartmann 
alone,  but  of  many  serious  and  cultivated  schol- 
ars, that  if  ever  an  idea  was  destined  to  triumph 
without  recourse  to  either  passion  or  violence, 
and  to  exercise  at  the  same  time  an  action  purely 
pacific,  yet  so  profound  and  durable  as  to  assure 
its  success  beforehand,  that  idea,  or  rather  that 
sentiment,  is  the  compassion  which  the  pessimist 
feels  not  only  for  himself,  but  for  everything  that 
is.  Its  gradual  adoption  these  gentlemen  con- 
sider not  as  problematical,  but  merely  as  a  ques- 
tion of  time.  Indeed,  the  difficulty  is  not  so 
great  as  might  be  supposed ;  every  day  the  will 
of  the  individual  suffices  to  triumph  over  the  in- 
stinctive love  of  life,  and,  Hartmann  logically 


The  Great  Quietus.  205 

argues,  may  not  the  mass  of  humanity  do  the 
same  thing  ?  The  denial  of  the  will  to  live  on  the 
part  of  the  individual  is,  it  is  true,  barren  of  any 
benefit  to  the  species,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  a 
universal  denial  would  result  in  complete  deliver- 
ance. 

Mankind,  however,  has  yet  a  long  journey  be- 
fore it,  and  many  generations  are  needed  to  over- 
come, and  to  dissipate  little  by  little,  through  the 
influence  of  heredity,  those  passions  which  are 
opposed  to  the  desire  for  eternal  peace.  In  time, 
Hartmann  thinks,  all  this  will  be  brought  about ; 
and  he  holds,  moreover,  that  the  development  of 
consciousness  will  correspond  with  the  weaken- 
ing of  passion,  which  is  to  be  one  of  the  charac- 
teristics of  the  decline  of  humanity,  as  it  is  now 
one  of  the  signs  of  the  day. 

The  third  condition  necessary  for  the  perfect 
consummation  of  this  gigantic  suicide  is  that 
communication  between  the  inhabitants  of  the 
world  be  so  facilitated  that  they  may  simultane- 
ously execute  a  common  resolution.  Full  play 
is  allowed  the  imagination  in  picturing  the  man- 
ner in  which  all  this  is  to  be  accomplished.  Hart- 
mann has  a  contempt  for  details,  and  contents 
himself  with  asserting  that  it  is  necessary  and 
possible,  and  that  in  the  abdication  of  humanity 
every  form  of  existence  will  cease. 

Such,  in  brief,  is  this  vehement  conception  of 
the  ordering  of  the  world,  and  the  plan  for  its 
precipitate  destruction.  With  a  soldierly  disre- 
gard of  objection,  but  with  a  prodigality  of  argu- 


206     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

ment  and  digression  which,  if  not  always  sub- 
stantial, is  unusually  vivid,  Hartmann  explains 
the  Unconscious  and  its  reacting  dualism  of 
Will  and  Idea.  One  principle  is,  as  has  been 
seen,  constantly  irrupting  into  life,  and  it  is 
through  the  revolt  of  the  second  that  the  first  is 
to  be  thwarted  and  extinguished.  Nothing,  in- 
deed, could  be  more  simple ;  and  it  would  be  a 
graceless  and  pedantic  task  to  laboriously  clam- 
ber to  the  same  vague  altitudes  to  which  Hart- 
mann has  so  lightly  soared,  and  there  contradict 
his  description  of  the  perspective. 

To  any  one  who  has  cared  to  follow  the  writer 
thus  far,  the  outlines  given  of  Hartmann's  con- 
spiracy against  pain  must  have  seemed  aggress- 
ively novel.  Schopenhauer's  ideas  on  the  same 
subject  were  seemingly  more  practical,  if  less 
lurid,  but  then  Schopenhauer  hugged  a  fact  and 
flouted  chimeras.  It  may  be  that  Schopenhauer 
was  a  little  behind  the  age,  for  Hartmann  has 
criticised  him  very  much  as  a  collegian  on  a  holi- 
day might  jeer  at  the  old-world  manners  of  his 
grandfather.  As  they  cannot  both  be  right,  each 
may  be  wrong ;  and  it  may  be  that  the  key  to 
the  whole  great  puzzle  is  contained  in  that  one 
word,  resignation,  which  the  poet-philosopher  pro- 
nounced so  long  ago.  As  a  remedy  this  certainly 
has  the  advantage  of  being  a  more  immediate 
and  serviceable  palliative  to  the  sufferer  than 
either  of  those  suggested  in  the  foregoing  sys- 
tems. It  is  admitted  that  — 

"  Man  cannot  feed  and  be  fed  on  the  faith  of  to-morrow's 
baked  meat ; " 


The  Great  Quietus.  207 

and  it  is  in  the  same  manner  difficult  for  any  one 
to  hypnotize  himself  and  his  suffering  with  the 
assurance  that  in  the  decline  of  humanity  all  pain 
will  cease  ;  on  the  other  hand,  whether  we  have 
in  regard  to  future  generations  an  after-me-the- 
deluge  feeling,  and  practically  care  very  little 
whether  or  no  they  annihilate  themselves  and 
pain  too,  still  the  more  intelligent  will  readily 
recognize  the  ubiquity  of  sorrow,  and  consider 
resignation  at  present  as  its  most  available  salve. 
But  in  spite  of  its  vagaries,  pessimism,  as  ex- 
pounded by  Schopenhauer  and  Hartmann,  pos- 
sesses a  real  and  enduring  value  which  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  talk  away;  it  is  naturally  most  easy  to 
laugh,  in  the  heyday  of  youth  and  health,  at  its 
fantastic  misanthropy  ;  indeed,  it  is  in  no  sense 
perfect ;  it  has  halted  and  tripped  many  times  ; 
it  has  points  that  even  to  the  haphazard  and  in- 
different spectator  are  weak  and  faulty,  and  yet 
what  creed  is  logically  perfect,  and  what  creed  is 
impregnable  to  criticism  ?  That  there  is  none 
such  can  be  truly  admitted.  The  reader,  then,  may 
well  afford  to  be  a  little  patient  with  pessimism  ; 
theoretically,  it  is  still  in  its  infancy,  but  with  in- 
creasing years  its  blunders  will  give  way  to 
strength  ;  and  though  many  of  the  theories  that 
it  now  holds  may  alter,  the  cardinal,  uncontrover- 
tible  tenet  that  life  is  a  burden  will  remain  firm 
and  changeless  to  the  end  of  time. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

IS   LIFE   AN   AFFLICTION  ? 

IN  very  stately  words,  that  were  typical  of  him 
who  uttered  them,  Emerson  said,  "  I  do  not  wish 
to  be  amused ; "  and  turned  therewith  a  figurative 
back  on  the  enticements  of  the  commonplace. 

Broadly  speaking,  the  sentiment  that  prompted 
this  expression  is  common  to  all  individual  men. 
The  so-called  allurements  and  charms  of  the 
world  are  attractive  to  the  vulgar,  but  not  to  the 
thinker,  and  whether  the  thinker  be  a  Trappist  or 
a  comedian,  he  will,  if  called  to  account,  express 
himself  in  a  manner  equally  frank. 

For  sentiments  of  this  description  neither  or- 
thodoxy nor  pessimism  is  to  blame.  They  are 
merely  the  resultants  of  the  obvious  and  the  true ; 
they  leap  into  being  in  every  intelligent  mind. 
The  holiday  crowd  on  its  way  to  the  Derby,  to 
Coney  Island,  the  Lido,  or  to  any  one  of  the  other 
thousand  places  of  popular  resort,  causes  even  the 
ordinary  observer  to  wonder  why  it  is  that  he 
cannot  go  too,  and  enjoy  himself  with  the  same 
boisterous  good  humor  which  palpitates  all  about 
him  ;  he  thinks  at  first  that  he  has  some  fibre 
lacking,  some  incapacity  for  that  enjoyment  which 


Is  Life  an  Affliction  ?  209 

has  in  so  large  a  measure  been  given  to  others  ; 
but  little  by  little  the  conviction  breaks  upon  him 
that  he  has  a  fibre  more,  and  that  it  is  the  others 
who  lack  the  finer  perceptions  with  which  he  is 
burdened. 

That  the  others  are  to  be  envied,  and  he  to  be 
pitied,  there  can  be  no  manner  of  doubt,  but  all 
the  same  the  fact  that  he  is  unable  to  take  part 
in  popular  amusements  steadfastly  remains  ;  and 
while  the  matter  of  the  extra  fibre  is  more  or  less 
reassuring,  it  is  not  always  perfectly  satisfactory, 
and  he  then  begins  to  look  about  for  the  reason. 
If  to  his  power  of  observation  there  be  added 
also  a  receptive  mind  and  an  introspective  eye, 
it  will  be  unnecessary  for  him  to  have  ever  heard 
of  M.  Renan  to  become  gradually  aware  that 
he  is  the  victim  of  a  gigantic  swindle.  In  com- 
mon with  many  others,  he  has  somehow  imag- 
ined that  the  world  was  a  broad  and  fertile 
plain,  with  here  and  there  a  barren  tract.  It  is 
impossible  for  him  to  give  any  reason  for  this 
fancy ;  "  In  the  world  ye  shall  have  tribulation," 
is  the  explicit  warning  of  the  Founder  of  Chris- 
tianity, and  to  this  warning  all  creeds,  save  that 
of  the  early  Hellenists,  concur.  It  did  not,  there- 
fore, come  from  any  religious  teaching,  nor,  for 
that  matter,  from  any  philosophy.  Still  the  im- 
pression, however  vague  it  may  seem  when  ana- 
lyzed, has  none  the  less  been  with  him,  as  with 
all  others,  the  reason  being  simply  that  he  grew 
up  with  it  as  he  may  have  grown  up  with  fairy 
tales,  and  it  is  not  until  his  aspirations  stumble 


2IO     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

'  over  facts  that  he  begins  to  see  that  life,  instead 
of  being  the  pleasant  land  flowing  with  milk  and 
honey,  which  he  had  imagined,  is  in  reality  some- 
thing entirely  different. 

These  deductions,  of  course,  need  not  follow 
because  a  man  finds  that  he  is  more  or  less  indif- 
ferent to  every  form  of  entertainment,  from  a 
king's  revel  to  a  walking-match  ;  but  they  may 
follow  of  any  man  who  has  begun  to  dislike  the 
propinquity  of  the  average,  and  to  feel  that  where 
the  crowd  find  amusement  there  will  be  nothing 
but  weariness  and  vexation  of  spirit  for  him. 
Under  such  circumstances  he  is  an  instinctive 
pessimist,  and  one  who  needs  but  little  theoretic 
instruction  to  learn  that  he,  as  all  others,  has 
been  made  use  of,  and  cheated  to  boot.  The 
others,  it  is  true,  are,  generally  speaking,  unaware 
of  the  deception  that  has  been  practiced  on  them ; 
they  have,  it  may  be,  a  few  faint  suspicions  that 
something  has  gone  wrong  somewhere,  but  even 
in  uttermost  depression  the  untutored  look  upon 
their  misfortunes  as  purely  individual,  and  un- 
shared by  the  world  at  large.  Of  the  universal- 
ity of  suffering,  of  the  fact,  as  John  Stuart  Mill 
has  put  it,  that  there  is  no  happiness  for  nine- 
teen twentieths  of  the  world's  inhabitants,  few 
have  any  conception  or  idea.  They  look,  it  may 
be,  over  their  garden  wall,  and,  hearing  their 
neighbor  grumble,  they  think  that,  being  cross- 
grained  and  ill-tempered,  his  life  is  not  one  of 
unalloyed  delight.  But  their  vision  extends  no 
further.  They  do  not  see  the  sorrow  that  has  no 


Is  Life  an  Affliction?  211 

words,  nor  do  they  hear  the  silent  knell  of  irre- 
coverable though  unuttered  hopes,  "  the  toil  of 
heart,  and  knees,  and  hands."  Of  all  these 
things  they  know  nothing ;  household  worries, 
and  those  of  their  neighbor  and  his  wife,  circle 
their  existence.  If  they  are  not  contented  them- 
selves, then  happiness  is  but  a  question  of  dis- 
tance. Another  street,  or  another  town,  or  an- 
other country  holds  it,  and  if  the  change  is  made, 
the  old  story  remains  to  be  repeated. 

There  are  those,  too,  who  from  dyspepsia,  tor- 
pidity of  the  liver,  or  general  crankiness  of  dis- 
position, are  inclined  to  take  a  gloomy  view  of 
all  things ;  then  there  is  a  temperamental  pes- 
simism which  displays  itself  in  outbursts  of  indig- 
nation against  the  sorrows  of  life,  and  in  frantic 
struggles  with  destiny  and  the  meshes  of  personal 
existence ;  there  is  also  the  sullen  pessimism  of 
despair  noticeable  in  the  quiet  folding  of  hands, 
and  which  with  tearless  eyes  awaits  death  without 
complaint;  then  there  are  those  who  complain 
and  sulk,  who  torment  themselves  and  others, 
and"  who  have  neither  the  spunk  to  struggle  nor 
the  grace  to  be  resigned,  —  this  is  the  "forme 
miserable;"  there  is  also  a  haphazard  pessimism 
which  comes  of  an  unevenness  of  disposition, 
and  which  asserts  itself  on  a  rainy  day,  or  when 
stocks  are  down  ;  another  is  the  accidental  type, 
the  man  who,  with  loss  of  wife,  child,  or  mis- 
tress, settles  himself  in  a  dreary  misanthropy ; 
finally,  there  is  hypochondria,  which  belongs 
solely  to  pathology. 


212     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

In  none  of  these  categories  do  the  victims 
have  any  suspicion  that  a  philosophical  signifi- 
cance is  attached  to  their  suffering.  Curiously 
enough,  however,  it  is  from  one  or  from  all  of 
these  different  classes  that  the  ordinary  accepta- 
tion of  pessimism  is  derived  ;  it  is  these  forms 
that  are  met  with  in  every-day  life  and  literature, 
and  yet  it  is  precisely  with  these  types,  that 
spring  from  the  disposition  and  temperament  of 
the  individual  who  exhibits  them,  that  scientific 
pessimism  has  nothing  to  do.  It  ignores  them 
entirely. 

Broadly  stated,  scientific  pessimism  in  its  most 
advanced  form  rests  on  a  denial  that  happiness  in 
any  form  ever  has  been  or  ever  will  be  obtained, 
either  by  the  individual  as  a  unit  or  by  the  world 
as  a  whole ;  and  this  for  the  reason  that  life  is 
not  considered  as  a  pleasant  gift  made  to  us  for 
our  pleasure  ;  on  the  contrary,  it  is  a  duty  which 
must  be  performed  by  sheer  force  of  labor,  —  a 
task  which  in  greater  matters,  as  in  small,  brings 
in  its  train  a  misery  which  is  general,  an  effort 
which  is  ceaseless,  and  a  tension  of  mind  and 
body  which  is  extreme,  and  often  unbearable. 
Work,  torment,  pain,  and  misery  are  held  to  be 
the  unavoidable  lot  of  nearly  every  one,  and 
the  work,  torment,  pain,  and  misery  of  life  are 
considered  as  necessary  to  mankind  as  the  keel 
to  the  ship.  Indeed,  were  it  otherwise,  were 
wishes,  when  formed,  fulfilled,  in  what  manner 
would  the  time  be  employed  ?  Imagine  the  earth 
to  be  a  fairyland  where  all  grows  of  itself,  where 


Is  Life  an  Affliction?  213 

birds  fly  roasted  to  the  spit,  and  where  each 
would  find  his  heart's  best  love  wreathed  with 
orange  flowers  to  greet  his  coming ;  what  would 
the  result  be  ?  Some  would  bore  themselves  to 
death,  some  would  cut  their  throats,  while  others 
would  quarrel,  assassinate,  and  cause  generally 
more  suffering  than  is  in  the  present  state  of  af- 
fairs actually  imposed  upon  them.  Pain  is  not 
the  accident,  but  the  necessary  and  inevitable 
concomitant  of  life  ;  and  the  attractiveness  of  the 
promise  "  that  thy  days  may  be  long  in  the  land 
which  the  Lord  thy  God  giveth  thee,"  is,  in  con- 
sequence, somewhat  impaired. 

Nor,  according  to  scientific  pessimism,  is  there 
any  possibility  that  happiness  will  be  obtained  in 
a  future  life.  In  this  there  is  no  atheism,  though 
the  arguments  that  follow  may  seem  to  savor  of 
the  agnostic. 

As  has  been  seen,  pleasures  are,  as  a  rule,  in- 
direct, being  cessations  or  alleviations  of  pain. 
If  it  be  taken  for  granted  that  in  a  future  life 
there  will  be  no  pain,  the  difficulty  is  not  over- 
come, but  rather  increased  by  the  fact  of  the 
rapid  exhaustion  of  nervous  susceptibility  to 
pleasure.  Furthermore,  as  without  brain  there  is 
no  consciousness,  it  will  riot  be  illogical  to  sup- 
pose that  e\4ery  spirit  must  be  provided  with  such 
an  apparatus;  in  which  case  the  psychological 
laws  in  the  other  life  must  be  strictly  analogous 
to  those  of  early  experience.  The  deduction 
follows  of  itself,  —  there,  too,  must  be  pain  and 
sorrow. 


214     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

To  this  it  may  be  objected  that  in  a  future 
life  there  need  be  no  question  either  of  pain  or 
pleasure,  and  that  the  ransomed  soul  will,  in  con- 
templation, or  love,  or  the  practice  of  morality, 
be  too  refined  to  be  susceptible  to  any  sensations 
of  a  grosser  nature. 

To  all  this  advanced  pessimism  has  a  ready 
answer  :  first,  there  can  be  no  morality,  for  where 
there  is  no  body  and  no  property  it  is  impossible 
to  injure  another ;  second,  there  can  be  no  love, 
for  every  form  of  love,  from  the  highest  to  the 
lowest,  rests  on  the  basis  of  sensibility ;  when, 
therefore,  after  the  abstraction  of  shape,  voice, 
features,  and  all  bodily  actions  that  are  mani- 
fested through  the  medium  of  the  brain,  nothing 
but  an  unsubstantial  shadow  remains,  what  is 
there  left  to  love  ?  third,  there  can  be  no  contem- 
plation, for  in  a  state  of  clairvoyance  contempla- 
tion is  certainly  useless. 

In  these  arguments  pessimism,  it  may  be  noted, 
does  not  deny  the  possibility  of  future  existence ; 
it  denies  merely  the  possibility  of  future  happi- 
ness ;  and  its  logic,  of  course,  can  in  no  wise  af- 
fect the  position  of  those  who  hold  that  man  is 
unable  to  conceive  or  imagine  anything  of  that 
which  is,  or  is  not  to  be. 

From  a  religious  standpoint  advanced  pessi- 
mism teaches  that  the  misery  of  life,  is  immedi- 
cable, and  strips  away  every  illusion  with  which  it 
has  been  hitherto  enveloped  ;  it  offers,  it  is  true, 
no  hope  that  a  future  felicity  will  be  the  recom- 
pense of  present  suffering,  and  if  in  this  way  it 


Is  Life  an  Affliction?  215 

ignores  any  question  of  reward  and  punishment, 
it  does  not  for  that  reason  necessarily  open  a 
gate  to  license  and  immorality ;  on  the  contrary, 
pessimism  stands  firmly  to  the  first  principle  of 
the  best  ethics,  and  holds  that  men  shall  do  good 
without  the  wish  to  be  rewarded,  and  abstain  from 
evil  without  the  fear  of  being  punished. 

In  regard  to  what  follows  death,  it  recognizes  in 
the  individual  but  the  aspiration  to  be  liberated 
from  the  task  of  cooperating  in  evolution,  the  de- 
sire to  be  replunged  in  the  Universal  Spirit,  and 
the  wish  to  disappear  therein  as  the  raindrop  dis- 
appears in  the  ocean,  or  as  the  flame  of  the  lamp 
is  extinguished  in  the  wind.  In  other  words,  it 
does  not  aim  at  mere  happiness,  but  at  peace  and 
at  rest ;  and  meanwhile,  until  the  hour  of  deliver- 
ance is  at  hand,  it  does  not  acquit  the  individual 
of  any  of  the  obligations  that  he  owes  to  society, 
nor  of  one  that  is  due  to  himself.  In  short,  the 
creed  as  it  stands  is  one  of  charity  and  good-will 
to  all  men ;  and,  apart  from  its  denial  of  future 
happiness,  it  does  not  in  its  ethics  differ  in  any 
respect  from  the  sublime  teachings  of  the  Chris- 
tian faith. 

It  seems  trite  to  say  that  we  are  passing  through 
a  transition  period,  for  all  things  seem  to  point 
to  a  coming  change ;  still,  whatever  alterations 
time  may  bring  in  its  train,  it  is  difficult  to  af- 
firm that  the  belief  here  set  forth  is  to  be  the 
religion  of  the  future,  n'est  pas  prophete  quiveut; 
in  any  event,  it  is  easy  to  prove  that  pessimism 
is  not  a  religion  of  the  past.  Its  very  youth 


2l6     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

militates  most  against  it ;  and  while  it  may  out- 
grow this  defect,  yet  it  has  other  objectionable 
features  which  to  the  average  mind  are  equally 
unassuring :  to  begin  with  it  is  essentially  icon- 
oclastic; wherever  it  rears  its  head,  it  does  so 
amid  a  swirl  of  vanishing  illusions  and  a  totter 
and  crash  of  superstition.  There  are  few,  how- 
ever, that  part  placidly  with  these  possessions ; 
illusions  are  relinquished  grudgingly,  and  as  for 
superstitions,  —  a  wise  man  has  said,  Are  they 
not  hopes  ?  It  would  seem,  then,  that  in  showing 
the  futility  of  any  quest  of  happiness  here  or  here- 
after, this  doctrine,  if  received  at  all,  will  have 
performed  a  very  thankless  task.  Indeed,  it  is 
this  reason,  if  no  other,  that  will  cause  it  for  some 
time  to  come  to  be  regarded  with  distrust  and  dis- 
like. The  masses  are  conservative,  and  their 
conservatism  usually  holds  them  one  or  two  cen- 
turies in  arrears  of  advancing  thought ;  and  even 
putting  the  masses  out  of  the  question,  one  has 
to  be  very  hospitable  to  receive  truth  at  all  times 
as  a  welcome  guest,  for  truth  is  certainly  very 
naked  and  uncompromising ;  we  love  to  sigh  for 
it,  Beranger  said,  and,  it  may  be  added,  most  of 
us  stop  there. 

Pessimism,  moreover,  seemingly  takes,  and 
gives  nothing  in  return  ;  but  if  it  is  examined 
more  closely  it  will  be  found  that  its  very  melan- 
choly transforms  itself  into  a  consolation  which, 
if  relatively  restricted,  is  none  the  less  valuable. 
Taubert,  one  of  its  most  vigorous  expounders, 
says,  "  Not  only  does  it  carry  the  imagination  far 


Is  Life  an  Affliction?  217 

beyond  the  actual  suffering  to  which  every  one  is 
condemned,  and  in  this  manner  shield  us  from 
manifold  deceptions,  but  it  even  increases  such 
pleasures  as  life  still  holds,  and  doubles  their  in- 
tensity. For  pessimism,  while  showing  that  each 
joy  is  an  illusion,  leaves  pleasure  where  it  found 
it,  and  simply  incloses  it  in  a  black  border,  from 
which,  in  greater  relief,  it  shines  more  brightly 
than  before." 

Another  objection  which  has  been  advanced 
against  pessimism  is  that  it  is  a  creed  of  quietist 
inactivity.  Such,  however,  it  can  no  longer  be 
considered ;  for  if  it  be  viewed  in  the  light  of  its 
recent  developments,  it  will  be  found  to  be  above 
all  other  beliefs  the  one  most  directly  interested 
in  the  progress  of  evolution.  Pessimism,  it  may 
be  remembered,  came  into  general  notice  not 
more  than  twenty-five  years  ago ;  at  that  time 
it  aroused  in  certain  quarters  a  horrified  dislike, 
in  others  it  was  welcomed  with  passionate  ap- 
proval ;  books  and  articles  were  written  for  and 
against  it  in  much  the  same  manner  that  books 
and  articles  leaped  into  print  in  defense  and 
abuse  of  the  theory  generally  connected  with  Dar- 
win's name.  Since  then  the  tumult  has  gradually 
calmed  down ;  on  the  one  hand  pessimism  is 
accepted  as  a  fact ;  on  the  other  new  expositors, 
less  dogmatic  than  their  great  predecessor,  and 
with  an  equipment  of  a  quarter  of  a  century's 
advance  in  knowledge,  prune  the  original  doc- 
trine, and  strengthen  it  with  fresh  and  vigorous 
thought.  Among  these,  and  directly  after  Hart- 


2i8      The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

mann,  Taubert  takes  the  highest  rank.  This 
writer  recognizes  the  truth  of  Schopenhauer's 
theory  that  progress  brings  with  it  a  clearer  con- 
sciousness of  the  misery  of  existence  and  the  il- 
lusion of  happiness,  but  at  the  same  time  much 
emphasis  is  laid  on  the  possibility  of  triumphing 
over  this  misery  through  a  subjugation  of  the 
selfish  propensities.  It  is  in  this  way,  Taubert 
considers,  that  peace  may  be  attained,  or  at  least 
the  burden  of  life  noticeably  diminished. 

The  bleakness  in  which  Hartmann  lodged  the 
Unconscious  is  through  this  treatment  rendered, 
if  not  comfortable,  at  least  inhabitable.  But 
while  in  this  manner  Taubert  plays  the  uphol- 
sterer, another  exponent  wanders  through  the 
shadowy  terraces  of  thought,  and  in  so  doing 
looks  about  him  with  the  grim  suavity  of  a 
sheriff  seeking  a  convenient  spot  on  which  to 
clap  a  bill  of  sale.  This  writer,  Julius  Bahnsen, 
is  best  known  through  his  "  Philosophy  of  His- 
tory," 1  and  a  recent  publication,  "  The  Tragic 
as  the  World's  First  Law,"  whose  repulsively  at- 
tractive title  sent  a  fresh  ripple  eddying  through 
the  seas  of  literature.  In  these  works  the  ex- 
treme of  pessimism  may  be  said  to  have  been 
reached,  for  not  only  does  their  author  vie  with 
Schopenhauer  in  representing  the  world  as  a 
ceaseless  torment  which  the  Absolute  has  im- 
posed on  itself,  but  he  goes  a  step  further,  and  in 

1  Zur  Philosophic  der  Geschichte,  u.  s.  w.  Carl  Duncker, 
Berlin  ;  also  Das  Tragische  als  Weltgesetz,  u.  s.  w.  Lauen- 
burg. 


Is  Life  an  Affliction?  219 

denying  that  there  is  any  finality  even  immanent 
in  Nature,  asserts  that  the  order  of  phenomena  is 
utterly  illogical.  It  may  be  remembered  that  the 
one  pure  delight  which  Schopenhauer  admitted 
was  that  of  intellectual  contemplation :  — 

"  That  blessed  mood, 
In  which  the  burden  of  the  mystery, 
In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 
Of  all  this  unintelligible  world 
Is  lightened." 

But  from  Bahnsen's  standpoint,  inasmuch  as  the 
universe  is  totally  lacking  in  order  or  harmonious 
design,  since  it  is  but  the  dim  cavernous  abode 
of  unrelated  phenomena  and  forms,  the  pleasure 
which  Schopenhauer  admitted,  so  far  from  caus- 
ing enjoyment,  is  simply  a  source  of  anguish  to 
the  intelligent  and  reflective  mind.  Even  the 
hope  of  final  annihilation,  which  Schopenhauer 
suggested  and  Hartmann  planned,  has  brought 
to  him  but  cold  comfort.  He  puts  it  aside  as 
a  pleasant  and  idle  dream.  To  him  the  misery 
of  the  world  is  permanent  and  unalterable,  and 
the  universe  nothing  but  Will  rending  itself  in 
eternal  self-partition  and  unending  torment. 

Beyond  this  it  is  difficult  to  go  ;  few  have  cared 
to  go  even  so  far,  and  the  bravado  and  vagaries  of 
this  doctrine  have  not  been  such  as  to  cause  any- 
thing more  than  a  success  of  curiosity.  Indeed, 
Bahnsen's  views  have  been  mentioned  here  sim- 
ply as  being  a  part  of  the  history,  though  not  of 
the  development  of  advanced  pessimism,  and 
they  may  now  very  properly  be  relegated  to  the 
night  to  which  they  belong. 


220     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

To  sum  up,  then,  what  has  gone  before,  the 
modern  pessimist  is  a  Buddhist  who  has  strayed 
from  the  Orient,  and  who  in  his  exodus  has 
left  behind  him  all  his  fantastic  shackles,  and 
has  brought  with  him,  together  with  ethical  laws, 
only  the  cardinal  tenet,  "  Life  is  evil."  Broadly 
considered,  the  difference  between  the  two  creeds 
is  not  important.  The  Buddhist  aspires  to  a  uni- 
versal nothingness,  and  the  pessimist  to  the  mo- 
ment when  in  the  face  of  Nature  he  may  cry  :  — 

"  Oh  !  quelle  immense  joie,  apres  tant  de  souffrance  ! 
A  travers  les  debris,  par-dessus  les  charniers, 
Pouvoir  enfin  jeter  ce  cri  de  delivrance  — 
'  Plus  d'hommes  sous  le  ciel !    Nous  sommes  les  der- 
niers  ! ' " 

Beyond  this  difference,  the  main  principles  of  the 
two  beliefs  vary  only  with  the  longitude.  The 
old,  yet  still  infant  East  demands  a  fable,  to 
which  the  young  yet  practical  West  turns  an  inat- 
tentive ear.  Eliminate  palingenesis,  and  the 
steps  by  which  Nirvana  is  attained,  and  the  two 
creeds  are  to  all  intents  and  purposes  precisely 
the  same. 

Of  the  two,  Buddhism  is,  of  course,  the  stronger ; 
it  appeals  more  to  the  imagination  and  less  to 
facts ;  indeed,  numerically  speaking,  its  strength 
is  greater  than  that  of  any  other  belief.  Ac- 
cording to  the  most  recent  statistics  the  world 
holds  about  8,000,000  Jews,  100,000,000  Mo- 
hammedans, 130,000,000  Brahmins,  370,000,000 
Christians,  and  480,000,000  Buddhists,  the  re- 
mainder being  pagans,  positivists,  agnostics  and 


Is  Life  an  Affliction?  221 

atheists.  Within  the  last  few  years  Buddhism 
has  spread  into  Russia,  and  from  there  into  Ger- 
many, England,  and  the  United  States,  and  wher- 
ever it  spreads  it  paves  in  its  passing  the  way 
for  pessimism.  The  number  of  pessimists  it  is 
of  course  impossible  to  compute  :  instinctive  pes- 
simists abound  everywhere,  but  however  limited 
the  number  of  theoretic  pessimists  may  be,  their 
literature  at  least  is  daily  increasing.  For  the 
last  twenty  years,  it  may  safely  be  said  that  not  a 
month  has  gone  by  unmarked  by  some  fresh  con- 
tribution ;  and  the  most  recent  developments  of 
French  and  German  literature  show  that  the 
countless  arguments,  pleas,  and  replies  which  the 
subject  has  called  forth  have  brought,  instead  of 
exhaustion,  a  new  and  expanded  vigor. 

The  most  violent  opposition  that  pessimism  has 
had  to  face  has  come,  curiously  enough,  from  the 
Socialists.  For  the  Socialists,  while  pessimists 
as  to  the  present,  have  optimistic  views  for  the 
future.  Their  cry  is  not  against  the  misery  of  the 
world,  but  against  the  capital  that  produces  it. 
The  artisan,  they  say,  is  smothered  by  the  prod- 
uce of  his  own  hands :  the  more  he  produces, 
the  more  he  increases  the  capital  that  is  chok- 
ing him  down.  In  time,  Marx  says,  there  will 
exist  only  a  few  magnates  face  to  face  with  a 
huge  enslaved  population  ;  and  as  wealth  in- 
creases in  geometric  proportion  so  will  poverty, 
and  with  it  the  exasperation  of  the  multitude. 
Then  the  explosion  is  to  come,  and  Socialism  to 
begin  its  sway.  Now  Socialism  does  not,  as  is 


222     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

generally  supposed,  preach  community  of  goods ; 
it  preaches  simply  community  of  profits,  and  the 
abolition  of  capital  as  a  productive  agent.  When 
the  explosion  comes,  therefore,  the  Socialists  pro- 
pose to  turn  the  state  into  one  vast  and  compre- 
hensive guild,  to  which  all  productive  capital, 
land,  and  factories  shall  appertain.  The  right  of 
inheritance  of  personal  property, it  maybe  noted, 
will  be  retained ;  and  this  for  a  variety  of  rea- 
sons, of  which  the  most  satisfactory  seems  to  be 
that  such  a  right  serves  as  an  incentive  to  econ- 
omy and  activity.  Money  may  be  saved  and 
descend,  but  it  is  not  to  be  allowed  the  power  of 
generation. 

It  will  be  readily  understood,  even  from  this 
brief  summary,  that  such  a  doctrine  as  Hart- 
mann's,  which  is  chiefly  concerned  in  disproving 
the  value  of  every  aspect  of  progress,  was  cer- 
tain to  call  out  many  replies  from  those  who  see 
a  vast  area  for  the  expansion  of  human  comfort 
and  happiness  in  the  future  developments  of  so- 
cial life. 

To  these  replies  the  pessimists  have  but  one 
rejoinder,  and  that  is  that  any  hope  of  the  ex- 
pansion of  happiness  is  an  illusion.  And  is  it 
an  illusion  ?  Simple  Mrs.  Winthrop  said,  "  If  us 
as  knows  so  little  can  see  a  bit  o'  good  and 
rights,  we  may  be  sure  as  there  's  a  good  and  a 
rights  better  nor  what  we  knows  of."  But  then 
Mrs.  Winthrop  was  admittedly  simple,  and  her 
views  in  consequence  are  hardly  those  of  the 
seer.  From  an  endaemonist  standpoint,  the  world 


Is  Life  an  Affliction1?  223 

does  not  seem  to  be  much  better  off  now  than  it 
was  two  or  three  thousand  years  ago  ;  there  are 
even  some  who  think  it  has  retrograded,  and  who 
turn  to  the  civilization  of  Greece  and  Rome  with 
longing  regret ;  and  this,  notwithstanding  the  fact 
that  from  the  peace  and  splendor  of  these  na- 
tions cries  of  distress  have  descended  to  us  which 
are  fully  as  acute  as  any  that  have  been  uttered 
in  recent  years.  Truly,  to  the  student  of  his- 
tory each  epoch  brings  its  own  shudder.  There 
have  been  ameliorations  in  one  way  and  pacifica- 
tions in  another,  but  misery  looms  in  tireless  con- 
stancy through  it  all.  Each  year  a  fresh  dis- 
covery seems  to  point  to  still  better  things  in 
the  future,  but  progress  is  as  undeniably  the  chi- 
mera of  the  present  century  as  the  resurrection 
of  the  dead  was  that  of  the  tenth ;  each  age  has 
its  own,  for  no  matter  to  what  degree  of  perfec- 
tion industry  may  arrive,  and  to  whatever  heights 
progress  may  ascend,  it  must  yet  touch  some  final 
goal,  and  meanwhile  pessimism  holds  that  with 
expanding  intelligence  there  will  come,  little  by 
little,  the  fixed  and  immutable  knowledge  that  of 
all  perfect  things  which  the  earth  contains  misery 
is  the  most  complete. 

To  question  whether  life  is  an  affliction  seems, 
from  the  facts  and  arguments  already  presented, 
to  be  somewhat  unnecessary.  The  answer  ap- 
pears in  a  measure  to  be  a  foregone  conclusion. 
Yet,  if  the  question  be  examined  without  bias 
and  without  prejudice  the  issue  is  not  only  doubt- 
ful, but  difficult  to  ascertain.  If  in  any  intelli- 


224     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

gent  community  the  matter  were  put  to  vote  by 
acclamation,  the  decision  would  undoubtedly  be 
in  the  negative  ;  and  that  for  a  variety  of  rea- 
sons, first  and  foremost  of  which  is  that  ninety 
and  nine  out  of  a  hundred  persons  are  led  by 
the  thread  of  external  appearance,  and  whatever 
their  private  beliefs  may  be,  they  still  wish  their 
neighbors  to  think  that  they  at  least  have  no 
cause  to  complain. 

It  is  this  desire  to  appear  well  in  the  eyes  o£ 
others  that  makes  what  is  termed  the  shabby-gen- 
teel, and  which  prevents  so  many  proud  yet  vul- 
gar minds  from  avowing  their  true  position.  In- 
deed, there  are  few  who,  save  to  an  intimate, 
have  the  courage  to  acknowledge  that  they  are 
miserable  ;  there  is  at  work  within  them  the  same 
instinct  that  compels  the  wounded  animal  to  seek 
the  depths  of  the  bushes  in  which  to  die.  Peo- 
ple generally  are  ashamed  of  grief,  and  turn  to 
hide  a  tear  as  the  sensitive  turn  from  an  accident 
in  the  street,  and  veil  their  eyes  from  deformity. 
Moreover,  it  is  largely  customary  to  mock  at  the 
melancholy ;  and  in  good  society  it  is  an  unwrit- 
ten law  that  every  one  shall  bring  a  certain  quota 
of  contentment  and  gayety,  or  else  remain  in 
chambered  solitude. 

Added  to  this,  and  beyond  the  insatiable  desire 
to  appear  serene  and  successful  in  the  eyes  of 
others,  there  is  the  terrible  dread  of  seeming  to 
be  cheated  and  outwitted  of  that  which  is  ap- 
parently a  universal  birthright ;  and,  according  to 
a  general  conception,  there  is  the  same  sort  of 


Is  Life  an  Affliction?  225 

moral  baseness  evidenced  in  an  unuttered  yet 
visible  appeal  for  sympathy,  as  that  which  is  at 
work  in  the  beggar's  outstretched  palm.  Many, 
it  is  true,  there  are  who  drop  the  furtive  coin,  but 
the  world  at  large  passes  with  averted  stare. 
"  There  is  work  for  all,"  is  a  common  saying,  and 
for  the  infirm  there  are  hospitals  and  institutions  ; 
"What,  then,  is  the  use  of  giving?  "it  is  queried, 
and  the  answer  follows,  "They  who  ask  for  alms 
are  frauds."  If  the  alms  be  taken  to  stand  for 
sympathy,  the  frauds  will  be  found  to  be  few  and 
far  between  ;  for,  if  each  man  and  woman  who 
has  arrived  at  the  age  of  reason,  at  that  age,  in 
fact,  which  is  not  such  as  is  set  by  the  statute, 
but  which  each  individual  case  makes  for  itself ; 
if  each  one  should  have  his  heart  first  wrung  dry 
and  then  dissected,  there  would  be  such  an  ex- 
panse and  prodigality  of  sorrow  discovered  as 
would  defy  an  index  and  put  a  library  to  shame. 

If  the  tendency  of  current  literature  is  exam- 
ined, it  will  be  found  to  point  very  nearly  the 
same  way.  In  earlier  days  the  novel  ended  with 
the  union  of  two  young  people,  and  the  curtain 
fell  on  a  tableau  of  awaited  happiness.  Nowa- 
days, however,  as  the  French  phrase  goes,  we 
have  changed  all  that.  Realistic  fiction  is  a  pic- 
ture of  life  as  it  is,  and  not,  as  was  formerly  the 
case,  a  picture  of  life  as  we  want  it.  Probably 
the  strongest  and  most  typical  romance  of  recent 
American  authors  is  "  The  Portrait  of  a  Lady  ; " 
and  this  picture  of  a  thoroughbred  girl,  awake  to 
the  highest  possibilities  of  life,  ends  not  only  in 


226     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

her  entire  disenchantment,  but  also,  if  I  have  un- 
derstood Mr.  James  aright,  in  her  utter  degrada- 
tion. In  that  very  elaborate  novel,  "  Daniel  De- 
ronda,"  the  moral  drawn  is  not  dissimilar,  and  yet 
its  author  stood  at  the  head  of  English  fiction. 

In  French  literature,  the  same  influence  is  even 
more  noticeably  at  work.  It  is  the  fashion  to 
abuse  Zola,  and  to  say  that  his  works  are  ob- 
scene ;  so  they  are,  and  so  is  the  life  that  he  de- 
picts, but  his  descriptions  are  true  to  the  letter ; 
and  the  gaunt  and  wanton  misery  which  he  de- 
scribed in  "rAssommoir  "  is  not,  to  my  thinking, 
such  as  one  need  blush  over,  but  rather  such  as 
might  well  cause  tears.  The  work  which  those 
princes  of  literature,  the  Goncourts  and  Daudet, 
have  performed,  has  been  prepared,  as  one  may 
say,  with  pens  pricked  in  sorrow.  "  Germanic 
Lacerteux,"  "  la  Fille  Eliza,"  "  Che'rie,"  "  Jack," 
the  "  Nabab,"  and  the  "  fivange'liste,"  are  but 
one  long-drawn-out  cry  of  variegated  yet  self- 
same agony.  In  this  respect  Tourguenieff  was 
well  up  to  the  age,  as  is  also  Spielhagen,  who  is 
very  generally  considered  to  be  the  best  of  Ger- 
man novelists. 

The  splendid  wickedness  of  mediaeval  Italy 
has  done  little  to  inspire  her  modern  authors. 
The  romances  most  abundant  there  are  cheap 
translations  from  the  French.  De  Amicis,  the 
most  popular  native  writer,  and  one  whose  name 
is  familiar  to  every  one  as  a  traveler  in  Gautier's 
footsteps,  has  written  but  few  stories,  of  which 


Is  Life  an  Affliction  ?  227 

the  best,  however,  "  Manuel  Menendez,"  is  the 
incarnation  of  the  soul  of  tragedy.1 

Less  recently,  Stendhal,  Balzac  and  Flaubert 
have  harped  the  same  note  of  accentuated  des- 
pair ;  Musset  has  sung  songs  that  would  make 
a  statue  weep,  and  Baudelaire  seems  to  have 
supped  sorrow  with  a  long  spoon.  In  brief,  the 
testimony  of  all  purely  modern  writers  amounts 
pretty  much  to  the  same  thing ;  life  to  them 
seems  an  affliction. 

This,  of  course,  it  may  do  without  altering  its 
value  to  others  ;  let  any  one,  for  instance,  go  to 
a  well-nurtured  and  refined  girl  of  eighteen  and 
tell  her  that  life  is  an  affliction,  and  she  will  look 
upon  her  informant  as  a  retailer  of  trumpery  par- 
adox. And  at  eighteen  what  a  festival  is  life  !  To 
one  splendid  in  beauty  and  rich  in  hope  how 
magnificent  it  all  seems ;  what  unexplored  yet  in- 
viting countries  extend  about  the  horizon !  winter 
is  a  kiss  that  tingles,  and  summer  a  warm  caress  ; 
everything,  even  to  death,  holds  its  promise. 
And  then  picture  her  as  she  will  be  at  eighty, 
without  an  illusion  left,  and  turning  her  tired  eyes 
each  way  in  search  of  rest. 

Life  is  not  an  affliction  to  those  who  are,  and 
who  can  remain  young ;  there  are  some  who, 
without  any  waters  of  youth,  remain  so  until  age 
has  sapped  the  foundation  of  their  being  ;  and  it 
is  from  such  as  they  that  the  greatest  cheer  is 

1  An  admirable  translation  (the  work  of  Professor  Charles 
Carroll,  of  New  York)  of  this  romance  appeared  a  few 
years  ago  in  Harper's  Monthly. 


228     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

obtained.  But  to  those  who  live,  so  to  speak, 
in  the  thick  of  the  fight,  who  see  hope  after  hope 
fall  with  a  crash,  and  illusion  after  illusion  vanish 
into  still  air ;  to  the  intelligent,  to  the  observer, 
and  especially  to  him  who  is  forced  against  his  will 
to  struggle  in  the  van,  life  is  an  affliction,  a  mis- 
hap, a  calamity,  and  sometimes  a  curse. 

That  there  are  many  such  is  proven  by  the  sta- 
tistics which  the  daily  papers  afford ;  and  could 
one  play  Asmodeus,  and  look  into  the  secret  lives 
of  all  men,  the  evidence  obtainable  would  in  its 
baldness  seem  hideously  undesirable.  The  de- 
grees of  sensitiveness,  however,  and  the  ability 
or  inability  to  support  suffering,  vary  admittedly 
with  the  individual.  There  are  men  who  rise 
from  an  insult  refreshed ;  there  are  many  to 
whom  an  injury  is  a  tonic  and  pain  a  stimulant ; 
and  there  is  even  a  greater  number  whose  sensi- 
bilities are  so  dull  that  what  is  torture  to  another 
is  barely  a  twinge  to  them. 

It  was  the  melancholy  privilege  of  the  writer 
to  assist,  a  short  time  since,  at  an  operation  per- 
formed in  a  German  hospital.  A  common  soldier 
had  been  thrown  from  a  horse  with  such  force  that 
his  elbow  was  dislocated ;  in  the  Klinik  he  put 
his  uninjured  arm  around  a  post,  and  then  let  the 
surgeon  pull  on  a  strap  which  had  been  fastened 
to  the  other,  until  the  joint  was  once  more  in  po- 
sition. His  arm  was  then  bandaged,  and  he  was 
told  to  return  in  a  fortnight.  On  his  second  visit 
the  bandage  was  removed,  and  the  surgeon,  after 
a  violent  effort,  moved  the  stiffened  joint  back- 


Is  Life  an  Affliction  ?  229 

wards  and  forwards.  During  both  operations, 
the  only  noticeable  evidence  of  pain  was  a  slight 
contraction  of  the  upper  lip,  while  the  general 
expression  of  his  face  was  that  of  a  calm  as 
stolid  as  is  required  of  the  soldier  when  in  the 
presence  of  his  superior.  To  such  an  one  as  he 
life  is  no  more  an  affliction  than  it  is  to  the  tur- 
tle. 

Then,  there  are  those  to  whom  life  is  the 
amusing  dream  of  an  hour,  who  flit  through  ex- 
istence in  loops  of  yellow  light,  who  find  pleasure 
in  all  things,  and  are  careless  of  the  morrow ;  and 
these,  perhaps,  above  all  others,  are  the  most  to 
be  envied.  It  is  such  natures  as  theirs  that  are 
usually  met  with  in  ordinary  fiction,  and  which 
are  so  singularly  infrequent  in  real  life.  In  fancy 
they  are  evoked  with  ease,  and  yet  somehow 
they  do  not  seem  to  bear  the  stamp  which  ex- 
perience has  set  upon  the  real.  That  there  are 
such  natures  it  is,  of  course,  absurd  to  deny,  but 
to  affirm  that  they  are  persistent  types  is  scarcely 
in  accordance  with  facts.  There  are,  for  instance, 
many  young  people  who  enter  life  with  a  prodi- 
gality of  supposition  which  is  certainly  lavish  ; 
they  see  that  others  are  smiling,  and  that  life, 
even  to  its  outskirts,  presents  an  appearance  of 
pleasing  serenity.  The  supposition  which  they 
foster,  that  a  percentage  of  happiness  will  be  al- 
lotted to  them,  is  then  not  unreasonable  ;  on  the 
contrary,  it  is  very  natural ;  but  as  far  as  the  ex- 
pectation goes,  we  are,  most  of  us,  very  well 
aware  that  it  holds  its  own  but  for  a  short  space 
of  time. 


230     The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

This  fact,  while  self-evident,  is  not  always  sat- 
isfactorily explained ;  indeed,  the  reason  why  so 
many  become  disappointed  with  life  is,  perhaps, 
explainable  only  on  psychological  grounds.  By 
all  means  the  most  important  role  throughout 
the  entire  length  and  breadth  of  humanity  is 
that  which  is  played  by  thought.  Its  influence  is 
as  noticeable  in  a  bakeshop  as  in  the  overthrow 
of  an  empire ;  yet,  in  spite  of  the  results  which 
are  constantly  springing  from  it,  it  was  Rousseau's 
opinion  that  "  1'homme  qui  pense  est  un  animal 
deprave."  Balzac  caught  at  this  theme,  and 
wrung  from  it  its  most  severe  deductions.  To 
him  it  was  a  dissolvent  of  greater  or  less  activity, 
according  to  the  nature  of  the  individual  in  whom 
it  worked.  Others  have  considered  it  to  be  the 
corrosive  acid  of  existence,  and  the  mainspring 
of  every  misfortune ;  all  this  it  may  or  may  not 
be,  but  that  at  least  it  is  the  prime  factor  of  dis- 
enchantment is  evidenced  by  such  an  every-day 
instance  as  that  man,  as  a  rule,  and  with  but  few 
exceptions,  pictures  in  advance  the  pleasures  and 
sensations  which  the  future  seems  to  hold,  and 
yet  when  the  pictured  future  becomes  the  actual 
present  the  disproportion  between  fact  and  fancy 
is  so  great  that  it  results,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten, 
in  a  complete  insolvency.  After  one  or  more 
bankruptcies  of  this  description  the  individual 
very  generally  finds  that  he  has  had  enough,  so 
to  speak,  and  lets  hope  ever  after  alone,  where- 
upon disillusionment  steps  in  and  takes  its  place. 

It  is  thought,  then,  that  does  the  mischief ;  ,pr 


Is  Life  an  Affliction?  231 

to  be  more  exact,  it  is  the  inability  to  maintain 
an  equilibrium  between  the  real  and  the  ideal ; 
that  is,  in  the  majority  of  cases,  the  cause  of  dis- 
enchantment. To  this  it  may  be  also  added  that 
it  is  because  every  one  is  so  well  organized  for 
misfortune  that  such  a  small  amount  of  open  re- 
volt is  encountered.  When  it  does  appear,  it  is, 
as  a  rule,  presented  by  such  thinkers  as  have 
been  mentioned  in  the  course  of  these  pages, 
who,  through  their  assertion  of  the  undeniable 
awake  the  dislike  and  animosity  of  those  who 
have  not  yet  had  their  fill  of  proceedings  in 
bankruptcy,  and  still  hope  to  find  life  a  pleasant 
thing  well  worth  the  living. 

It  may  be  said  in  conclusion,  and  without  any 
attempt  at  the  discursive,  that  the  moral  atmos- 
phere of  the  present  century  is  charged  with  three 
distinct  disturbances,  —  the  waning  of  religious 
belief,  the  insatiable  demand  for  intense  sensa- 
tions, and  the  increasing  number  of  those  who 
live  uncompanied,  and  walk  abroad  in  solitude. 
That  each  of  these  three  effects  is  due  to  one 
and  the  self-same  cause  is  well-nigh  unquestion- 
able. The  immense  nausea  that  is  spreading 
through  all  lands  and  literature  is  at  work  on  the 
simple  faith,  the  contented  lives,  and  joyous  good- 
fellowship  of  earlier  days,  and  in  its  results  it 
brings  with  it  the  signs  and  portents  of  a  forth- 
coming though  undetermined  upheaval.  Jean 
Paul  said  that  we  care  for  life,  not  because  it  is 
beautiful,  but  because  we  should  care  for  it; 
whence  follows  the  oft  repeated  yet  hollow  reason- 


232      The  Philosophy  of  Disenchantment. 

ing.  —  since  we  love  life  it  must  be  beautiful ;  and 
it  is  from  a  series  of  deductions  not  dissimilar 
that  the  majority  of  those  who  are  as  yet  unaf- 
fected by  that  which  after  all  may  be  but  a  pass- 
ing change  still  cling  resolutely  to  the  possibility 
of  earthly  happiness. 

Out  of  a  hundred  intelligent  Anglo-Saxons 
there  are  seldom  two  who  think  precisely  alike 
on  any  given  subject,  be  that  subject  what  it 
may,  —  art,  politics,  literature,  or  religion.  In- 
deed, there  is  but  one  faith  common  to  all,  and 
that  is  custom.  It  is  not,  however,  customary  to 
discuss  a  subject  such  as  that  which  is  treated  in 
these  pages ;  and  it  is,  as  a  rule,  considered  just 
as  bad  form  to  question  the  value  of  life  as  it  is 
to  touch  upon  matters  of  an  indelicate  or  repul- 
sive nature. 

It  is,  perhaps,  for  this  latter  reason,  as  also 
in  view  of  the  great  difference  of  expressed  opin- 
ion on  all  topics,  that  in  England,  and  espec- 
ially in  America,  so  little  is  said  on  this  subject, 
which  for  many  years  past  has  been  of  interest 
to  the  rest  of  the  thinking  world,  and  which 
each  year  is  gaining  in  strength  and  significance. 
What  its  final  solution  will  be  is,  of  course,  un- 
certain. Schopenhauer  recommended  absolute 
chastity  as  the  means  to  the  great  goal,  and  Hart- 
mann  has  vaguely  suggested  a  universal  denial  of 
the  will  to  live  ;  more  recently,  M.  Renan  has 
hazarded  the  supposition  that  in  the  advance  of 
science  some  one  might  discover  a  force  capable 
of  blowing  the  planet  to  atoms,  and  which,  if 


Is  Life  an  Affliction?  233 

successfully  handled,  would,  of  course,  annihilate 
pain.  But  these  ideas,  however  practicable  or 
impracticable  they  may  be  in  the  future,  are  for 
the  moment  merely  theories  ;  the  world  is  not  yet 
ripe  for  a  supreme  quietus,  and  in  the  mean  time 
the  worth  of  life  may  still  be  questioned. 

The  question,  then,  as  to  whether  life  is  valua- 
ble, valueless,  or  an  affliction  can,  with  regard  to 
the  individual,  be  answered  only  after  a  consider- 
ation of  the  different  circumstances  attendant  on 
each  particular  case  ;  but,  broadly  speaking,  and 
disregarding  its  necessary  exceptions,  life  may  be 
said  to  be  always  valuable  to  the  obtuse,  often 
valueless  to  the  sensitive  ;  while  to  him  who 
commiserates  with  all  mankind,  and  sympathizes 
with  everything  that  is,  We  never  appears  other- 
wise than  as  an  immense  and  terrible  affliction. 


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